Chameleon
by bloodrose18
Summary: The newest masked hero has set her cap for Rorschach. Not a traditional love story.
1. Chapter 1

**Oops! Sorry, guys! I've been having all sorts of technical errors with the site, including my own user errors, so I wanted to apologize at having this be so long. Thank you to everyone who has put the time in to read my story and write the helpful reviews.**

**I confess to being rather new to the Watchmen world, having heard of it less than two months ago. I've never been much of a girl for comic books, so I'm way behind. So far I have only read through the comic once, and seen the movie a few times, so I apologize for wrong dates, etc. I'm working on it though ******

**Also, this was intended to be multiple chapters, so I am going to try and upload it again properly; see if I can get it done without any mess-ups!**

**Finally, I fully and utterly recognize the fact that Rorschach/Walter would most likely never have any relationship with a woman. But….but….I want him to! I like him! So, in my universe, he can. He may have issues with it, but he will. So there. *Childish pouty face***

**Also, the usual. I don't own any of the original characters. Thanks!**

"Hey, Rorschach, have you met the new girl?" Nite Owl stopped his masked companion as he was leaving Ozymandius' home after the meeting. The two were the first to leave, the remainder of the Watchmen still sitting upstairs in the parlor, no doubt enjoying drinks and talking.

"Unaware we had one," Rorschach paused, turning his masked face to the only fellow superhero that he could call friend. "Did not see anyone upstairs that is not always there."

"Well, we do. She's actually at my house. She's met everyone already, except you and Ozymandius."

"Why didn't she come then, and meet the whole gang?" Rorschach said the last word with a sneer, as if he did not think that their group of superhero's really worked as a unit.

Nite Owl shrugged. "Manhattan suggested that she not. He does not think Ozymandius will like her, or want to accept her. He thinks he will find her too young, too pretty, too reckless."

"Doubt her physical appearance matters in her ability."

"No, but it is pleasant to look at her. Dr. Manhattan is quite taken with her; well, at least as taken as he can seem to be, you know. The Comedian of course….adores her. Of course, the Silk Spectre is less charmed."

Rorschach laugh, a short barking sound. "Of course; being replaced as the object of lust in the Watchmen must be terrible," he said sarcastically. "And what does this new super-human style herself as?"

Nite Owl shook his head; it would be impossible to get his friend to see a woman as anything other than a whore. "She doesn't. As I said, she's very young. She has never done any crime-fighting, but her abilities are remarkable. For someone completely untrained, she is formidable indeed. Manhattan calls her the Chameleon."

"What does Silk Spectre call her?"

"'That woman' I believe," he said wryly. "Will you come meet her?"

"Had other plans."

"Like what? Roaming the city and being disgusted at…what? 'The dregs of society?' Come on, Rorschach. It's not every night you meet a new Watchmen."

Rorschach hesitated, then shrugged. "Very well. At least I can meet her and add her face to my safe list."

"Safe list?"

"People I am not supposed to kill."

Nite Owl opened the door to his house, stepping back to let Rorschach through. Having been here many times in the past, Rorschach was immediately struck by the permeation of femininity throughout his friend's formerly bachelor home. The furniture was the same, large masculine chairs in square shapes, tables that did not match, but now, instead of the customary laundry smell, there was an almost citrus smell on the air, apparently coming from a number of candles that had been placed and lit around the room. A large throw pillow had been tossed on the leather couch, a light green blanket spread over the edge of the couch, as if someone who had been wrapped up in it had just gotten up. A book was turned over on the coffee table, next to a large glass with a few drops of dark red wine still at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, the book was no romance novel or shoddy bestseller, like he had expected. It was a book of ethics, comprising the Greek philosophers as well as more modern philosophers.

"Oh, Dan, your back!" a woman's voice called, coming closer. "I wasn't expecting you until…" She paused as she stepped into the room, her eyes widening as they fell on Rorschach, flitting to Nite Owl as if to check his reaction.

"Sayre, this is Rorschach. He's one of us."

"I can see that." Her eyes looked him over. In the dimness of the living room, her eyes were bright, vividly green like a cat's. She wore red and black flannel pajama pants and a black tank top, obviously Dan's. She was an average height woman, but her nondiscriptiveness stopped there. Nite Owl had been right, she was young, and no doubt those ruled by their hormones would find her irresistible indeed. Her hair was black, hanging down her shoulders, and full, taking the light of the candles. Her skin was very pale, her features delicate and almost kittenish. Her body though. Rorschach frowned behind his mask. She looked more like a woman for adult videos than crime fighting. Even in casual men's pajamas, her soft curves and lush form invited lust.

"I'll be right back. I gotta get out of this costume. Rorschach, grab a beer if you want."

As he left the room to go down into his basement and stylized lair, the woman stepped towards him, her heady and yet clean feminine smell almost suffocating him. She cocked her head to the left. "Well?"

"What?"

"Do I meet with your approval? Dr. Manhattan warned that you, even more than Ozymandius, would be the most critical of me. Dan likes you, for some reason, but so far all you have done is stare at me like I am some sort of disease."

"You can not see my eyes."

"No, but I can feel them on me. I'm pretty used to the stares of men, you know, and I know what the different stares feel like. Yours is not kind, or lustful, or any of the other looks I am accustomed to receiving. So, what?"

"Have not formed an opinion of you. Will hold off until I see you perform."

"Oh, but now I think you are lying. You have formed an opinion of me, and I don't think its favorable. Perhaps we can change this. If I were ugly, would you like me better?"

Rorschach huffed. "Makes no difference to me if you are pretty or ugly. You can fight as well as you can either way, and you will die either way."

"Hmm," a slight smile touched her lips. "Would you like to test my abilities then? All the others have, and have not found them wanting; even Laurie, who very much wanted to see me fail."

"Was this in bed, or out?"

Her eyes narrowed, teeth almost bared, before she relaxed and laughed. "Dan was right. Ah well, you may hold onto your misconceptions if it pleases you, Rorschach. But contrary to what you think, not all women are whores, and many of us do have dignity."

"Have they tested your abilities against their own?" he asked as she began to turn away.

"You mean, have I fought them? No. Dan said we do not fight each other. He's had me begin learning some formal martial arts, but mostly they have tested my speed and my power."

"Which is?"

She smiled, and then disappeared. Rorschach froze. He could sense her presence, but not locate her.

"You turn invisible?"

"No," her voice breathed in his ear. Lightning fast, he spun, his hand touching her hair. Grabbing at it, he fought with her, no blows, only strength on strength. It was disconcerting, not being able to see her. After a moment though, he was able to see almost her outline in the room as it rippled before him.

All at once she became visible again and Rorschach froze. She was on her knees between his legs, both her hands raised, clutching at his that held her hair. Her mouth was a mere inch from the zipper on his pants, her cat eyes tilted up to his face. With a wordless curse, he let her go, shoving her head back and stepping away.

"Oh, Rorschach!" She began giggling, hands pressed over her lips like a child. "I am sorry, but oh, that was funny. You….you…."

Rorschach waited. Finally, she stopped laughing, standing up slowly, shaking out her hair. "Now do you see?"

"Dr. Manhattan calls you the Chameleon. You take on your background."

"Yes. Rorschach, why are you afraid of women?"

He puts his hands deep in his pockets. He does not like this girl, with her too frank stare, her absolute confidence, her challenging posture. "I fear nothing."

"Then why are you uncomfortable around me? When I was on my knees, I felt you tremble, and then you recoil. Why?"

"You understand nothing."

"Was it because of my position? Did you honestly think…oh."

"Yes, oh," he sneered. He could hear Daniel coming up from the basement behind him. "Even unintentionally, you show your whorish tendencies. And yet, there is something so…so damn innocent about you. A whore before you have been jaded. A biological disease."

Less than a week later, Rorschach was wandering the streets. The overhead clock outside one of the bars read 11:58pm. Almost midnight; almost time for another day to be born, a day that would breed more hate, more filth. Rorschach despised it.

The whores were out in force tonight, their creamy, diseased mounds of flesh displayed for any man to see, clad in too short skirts, unbuttoned shirts. Like higher-level rodents, they roamed freely about the town, always seeking their next meal, their next john. And like rodents, they become background noise when one knows they are there. Rorschach ignored them.

Until, that is, his gaze was caught by one who shone like a beacon among all the filth. Her skirt was not any longer than any other whore, her shirt no less abbreviated, and yet…he slowed. That lustrous black hair, today caught up in a loose ponytail was unmistakable. The features, even caked with pounds of bright colored makeup, shone through as almost feline, the vivid green eyes taking in everything. Ignoring the calls from the other whores, Rorschach approached the newest Watchmen. She turned, seeing him coming and smiled, swaying her hips. Her stockings were ripped open in places, showing the creamy white thigh beneath.

"Already tired of the superhero job?" he asked, stopping well beyond her reach. Her eyes flashed, and she tossed her head like a common whore, her body moving in concentric, seductive circles. Even so, pretending to be like the rest of the filth, there was something about her that shone.

"Not at all," she said, her voice low as to not be overheard. "I'm doing this entirely for your benefit."

"You did not know I would be on this side of town."

"Of course not," she shrugged, then catcalled loudly to a man walking by. "Now, go away. You are ruining my cover."

Nodding curtly, he stepped back into an alley. He could still see her, but he was near concealed in the shadows. What was she doing? Not whoring herself out, no, she would not do that. She came from a higher class breed of maggot; the type that married much older men with money and called themselves wives instead of prostitutes. Not this type out on the street. Then, what? If she was already fighting crime…Daniel would not have let her out on her own already. He must be somewhere close by.

For the next half an hour, men came and went. Drawn by her youth, her obvious health and good looks, the johns were constant. Most she simply requested a price too high; they could get the same for half across the street, and away they went, with many jeers and catcalls behind them. One man, however, who seemed more persistent than the others, she led upstairs into a dilapidated building, returning a minute later without him.

Rorschach watched as one particularly dangerous looking man came walking up the street. He was no longer young, but his body was strong, and Rorschach could see at least a dozen weapons, mostly knives, on him. He was a large man, his hand massive. A bull of a man.

"Ooh, hey baby," Sayre said, startling Rorschach out of his casual observation. This was the first she had initiated with any of the passers-by. Her voice had deepened, taking on a grating quality like a smoker. She approached the man, sliding her hands up her….offering her….Rorschach stared in disgusted fascination how in one move, the shining innocence that surrounded the girl darkened into a seductive, deadly light.

The man was talking, his voice low. Rorschach couldn't hear his words, but he too seemed mesmerized by the woman who was now almost in his arms, playfully running her fingers along his belt. After a few moments of talking, they walked off together. Letting them get a ways ahead, Rorschach headed into the street, pulling up his mask so that he did not draw attention to himself. After less than a block, they turned to go up the steps of a grungy old house.

What was she doing? Rorschach needed to find out. Kicking in the door would be too obvious, he decided. He had heard the click of multiple deadbolts, and the sound it would make would be terrible. With an almost regretful sigh, he began to climb the drain pipe, his sight set on an open window on the second floor.

Once in the house, Rorschach heard panting. He felt his features pull up in disgust. Could she really be…Slowly, he made his way down the hall to a room where the sounds were coming from. The door was partially open. He could see the man Sayre had gone with lying on a bed. The man looked terrified, his face sweating, his eyes wide open. His underwear had been shoved into his mouth to serve as a gag, and his hands were cuffed to the bed frame above his head.

Suddenly the door swung open. Sayre stood, looking at him, her whore's makeup running. She did not look surprised to see him; indeed her face showed no emotion. "Rorschach. You shouldn't be here."

"Should you?" he stepped into the room. Standing so close, he could see that they were almost of a height. With her heels on, she was perhaps less than an inch shorter than he.

"I have to be. You should go, its late. This is not superhero business."

"What is it, then?" he gestured to the man who was now looking at him with pleading eyes. Rorschach could see the collection of knives and two guns Sayre had collected from the man sitting on a table just out of the man's reach.

She turned back to him, her eyes dead. "Revenge."

"You will not leave?" she asked him. He backed to the wall, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "Very well. But do not dare try and stop me, Rorschach. Your presence gives your consent. If you stop me, I will do everything in my power to kill you. Understand?"

"Yes."

She nodded, turning back to the bound man. "You know, Peter M. Jacobi, I am _so_ glad we finally got to have this chat. You've been enjoying the past five years, it seems. You have certainly gotten fatter, but it looks well on you." She picked up one of his knives. "I'm not a sadist, you know. I don't like hurting people. But you, you forfeited your right to humanity for what you did to my sister. Besides, I think you deserve to hurt, at least as much as she did, right? And maybe some more, for the pain you put me through. What do you think?"

The man attempted to speak, but the gag prevented his words from being intelligible. Even so, Sayre was nodding along with him. "Yes, yes. I know, you will protest your innocence at first. But lets not do that, ok? That's why I am not going to let you talk. You did it. You murdered my sister in the worst possible way. I don't want, or need, to hear you break down and apologize for it. Your screams, and then the cessation of your life will be enough for me. You don't have to thank me."

Rorschach watched as she moved to the man's feet, which were tied with a long piece of rope to the bed. She picked up a long thin instrument from the table. It appeared to be a hair piece, but Rorschach could see the sharpened edge. It looked strong, perhaps made of steel. Taking the man's foot in her hand, she touched the tip to his ankle. The man tried to scream then, shaking his head. Sayre's expression hardened just a bit as she stabbed the needle into his ankle, forcing it through to the other side, through tendons. The man did scream then, but the gag prevented the noise from being overly loud.

"Oh, don't faint on me yet, Jacobi. We've got a long night ahead of us." Sayre smiled, a tight, humorless grin.

The clock read 3:57am. Rorschach was walking back down the same street, this time with an added, unwanted burden in his arms. Sayre had tortured the man for almost three hours before he had died, finally. She had broken most of the bones in his body, castrated him, and had begun to flay him before he finally went into shock and died. Sayre herself had then stood up, covered in blood and tears, taken a few wobbly steps towards the door, and collapsed. When Rorschach had tried to awaken her, he had gotten no response.

Perturbed at what he must do, he stared at her prone form for over a minute, deciding. She lay on her side, one arm covering her face. Her skirt had ridden up so that he could see black lace beneath it. This angered him, worse, it almost infuriated him. He wanted to kick her; would have, if he had thought she would show any reaction. He should leave her here…but to do so was…unthinkable. Gritting his teeth, he bent and picked her up. Although dead weight, she seemed too light.

Now, he paused. Where could he take her? Not back to Daniel's, not looking like this. No. _Damn her_, he thought. He could only take her back to his flat. She could return to Daniel's later, when she had woken. As he turned onto his street, a small street made up of small one bedroom houses that had seen better days, he felt her shift, her arms winding about his neck. He almost dropped her then, but felt that she was not actually awake yet. She had not intentionally touched him, it was a reaction of her unconscious mind.

He kicked open the door, hearing the lock bust; he would have to put a new one in later, but he didn't have an extra hand to unlock it right now. Stumbling now, he made it to the bedroom where he released her on one side of the large bed. The bed had simple white sheets, no comforter or blankets. She was dirty, she should not be on clean sheets, but it could not be helped. He could not bathe her.

Leaving her there, he went into the bathroom, locking the door carefully behind him. He voided his bladder and turned on the shower. Slowly, he removed his coat, his hat, his shirt. Finally, his mask. Staring at himself in the mirror, the flesh face beneath his true face, he was surprised to see himself look so emotional. He looked nervous. Those greenish eyes were darting everywhere, his lip being worried by his teeth. His hair, a dull red, had a craziness to it. Turning away from the mirror in disgust, he shed his shoes and pants and stepped into the shower.

Getting out, he realized he was tired. His body ached, and he wanted to sleep. With his towel wrapped around him, he snuck back into the bedroom, but he needn't have worried. Sayre was still completely unconscious on the bed. Quickly, he dressed, pulling his mask back on. He didn't remember having picked it up in the bathroom, but here it was. He settled, gingerly, on the edge of the big bed, as far away from the woman as he could. Within minutes he was asleep.

Rorschach came awake all at once. The sun was fully up, and things were not as they should be. He looked down. He was propped up against the wall, half sitting on the bed. He had slept like this, all night. The woman, instead of being on her side of the bed where she ought to be, was pressed up against him, her face resting on his hip, her arm curved over his lap, her small hand resting in his hand which hung loose at his side. Rorschach was horrified. How dared she touch him? But then he noticed his other arm, cupped around her back, his own hand resting comfortably on the curve of her ass. No!

Sayre felt his muscles tighten and woke up. With a restrained hiss, he pushed her off him and stood, fighting the pins and needles in his legs. She looked around, saw him and looked puzzled. She shifted, pulling her legs underneath her. With most of her makeup rubbed off, she looked a little lost.

"Rorschach? What…what's going on? Where are we?"

"Just a house," he told her. "You passed out. It was too late to take you back to Daniel's."

"You stayed with me all night?" she asked him, ruffling her hair. He nodded. "Damn. Thank you, I think. But I should go."

"I'll take you back to Daniel's."

"Thanks."

He did not see her much over the next few weeks. He was glad. She made him uncomfortable, more than the Silk Spectre ever could. He saw her a few times, mostly at a distance. A college girl, she was. She had a small apartment near the school where she lived alone, paid for by wealthy parents, he though. He had seen her on her balcony when he had taken off his real face. She did not recognize him, of course, but it allowed him to look at her without her challenging gaze. Compared to the other girls in her apartment complex, she was much more conservative. She tended to wear jeans and high necked shirts, often turtlenecks or fitted t-shirts, but even then she had a seductive quality that outshone her peers in their miniskirts and belly-baring tops.

Often when he saw her functioning in her new role as a superhero, she was with Dr. Manhattan. Whenever she saw him she would make sure and wave, causing him to grind his teeth. She seemed to sense his discomfort and did everything she could to increase it.

On this day, she was fortunately nowhere in sight. Rorschach was standing in Manhattan's underground lab, watching the blue man tinker with his experiments. "She needs a costume, Rorschach."

"Who?"

"Let us not play this game. You may pretend to not know who I am talking about, but I have seen the way you follow each other around with your eyes."

"You can not see my eyes." Rorschach retorted. Hadn't he said something similar to Sayre on the night they met?

"No. I do not need to. Have you had her?"

"Have I…No!"

"Why?"

Rorschach turned to leave, but he felt Manhattan turn him back. "I…she is impure. Filthy. She is little better than a whore, Manhattan. She breeds lust, she encourages it."

"In you. She is very pretty, and I do not deny that I would be honored to share her bed, were it not for my deep affection for Laurie. She inspires genuine like, Rorschach. Only in you does that turn to lust."

"I want to tear her apart."

"Lust is like that sometimes. But it is your lust, not hers. Sayre is innocent."

"Innocent?" Rorschach scoffed. "You have not seen her, dressed like a whore, touching…"

"Dressing like a whore to kill her sister's murderer, yes I know. We discussed it. She did not mean to wake up with her arm around you. Nor, I think, did you intend to wake with your arm around her."

"She should not touch me. Ever. Now let me go."

"As you wish," Manhattan sighed, letting him leave. "But Rorschach…the girl is a virgin. She may act the whore at times, but she is not."

Rorschach looked to the girl on his left. She was having a bit of trouble keeping pace with him tonight, but they all did. He was quick; he walked with a purpose. She did not have his rhythm down yet, the short hurried steps that required very little effort on the body. Still trying to walk as she was used to, with long loose strides, she had to struggle to keep up.

Somehow it was easier to look at her when she was in her costume. Adopting Manhattan's moniker for her, Sayre had also allowed the superhuman to commission a suitable outfit for her masked escapades. Ozymandius had, surprisingly, accepted the girl with little outward qualm and had indeed funded the creation of her costume. The material was skintight as latex, hugging every curve of her supple frame, of a shifting silver green color. The material covered her entire body, from the top of her head to her toes. Only the lower half of her face was bare skin, the goggles that were so akin to Nite Owl's over her eyes and nose. The costume was created so that her hair stuck up like a lengthy Mohawk, in great jagged spikes from the top of her head. Manhattan had touched them to make them stand like that, giving her the look of a lizard as well as the name.

She did not try to talk to him except as necessary for their work. Although when she saw him outside of partnering him at night, she still waved and smiled in an attempt to make him uncomfortable; at night, she was all business. Keeping about ten feet to his left, she flickered in and out of visibility, letting her power take over or not as she willed. He recognized the hunter in her, and knew she was proficient. Not having the moral scruples of Nite Owl, she could, and did, dispatch those criminals who deserved immediate death, easily subduing those who could be incarcerated.

If she did not make him so damn uncomfortable, he might even have enjoyed working with her on patrols. She did not try to make small talk like the Silk Spectre would, filling the void with her useless chatter. She did not attempt to make things a team effort like Nite Owl always did. In fact, she often acted as if he were not even there, which suited him just fine. They walked together, fought silently except for the occasional curse, and went their separate ways in the morning.

Why, then, did he feel like there was something missing? He preferred to work solo, but all the remaining Watchmen were taking turns with the Chameleon, showing her the ropes. He found he wanted to talk to her, to at least understand why she was doing this, what was in it for her.

"Would think a girl your age would have something better to do on a Friday night," he said finally. They turned into an alley, seemingly empty for the moment.

"Better than patrolling the streets, hunting for bad guys?" she laughed.

"No dates?"

She was silent for a moment before replying. "No. I don't….go on dates."

"Hmm." He was unsure what to reply.

After a moment, she continues. "I know, it's strange. I'm twenty-three years old, and I've only been on one date in my life. No real friends to speak of. No boyfriend. No one to miss me and wonder why I am not at home at three thirty in the morning. But you must understand, Rorschach…and I think this may be true for all of us in some form or another. None of us are really social people. Sure, Silk Spectre and Nite Owl have normal lives outside of this, but even in those lives, they have no real friends, no intimate relationships. Why is that? Because none of us are normal. We can pretend to be, can be, for short period of time, but forever? No."

"No. We will never be normal."

"Relationships are hard. Relationships were there can be no equal footing, no honesty…how much harder would that be? I could not date a man that I had to have a secret life from; that I would have to break dates to save the world. I understand Silk Spectre's dilemma …all she can do is try and fill that void with the only equals that exist, fellow superheroes."

"And you?"

She paused in her step, delicately side-skirting a puddle. "What of me? I have no desire for a relationship with the men available to me. Manhattan is Laurie's. Daniel too, is infatuated with her; we shall see who she ends up with. That leaves me Ozymandius…and I don't think he has any taste for me, nor do I for him."

She never mentioned his name. She did not consider him a candidate for carnal pastimes. He should be glad, he knew. He was glad. But sometimes, in the early mornings as he crept into his bed, his mind would replay the way she moved, her young flesh working beneath that shimmering skin tight costume. Kovacs was weak without his face on. Kovacs could imagine the way her body would look without the costume covering it, replaying the few glimpses he had shamefully memorized as Rorschach.

"What of you, Rorschach? What do you do outside of this?"

"Sleep. Eat. Try to stay alive."

"No girlfriend?"

"No." He hopped a fence easily, slowing his step a moment to allow her to catch up. "Never that. I will not allow such mental contamination, such physical corruption. It is disgusting to me."

"Ah."

Months passed. It was now October. Sayre was a full-fledged Watchman now, allowed to go out on her own at will. She had taken up a regular patrol of her neighborhood, always watching. It was as good a way as any to combat the insomnia that plagued her. Tonight, though, was going to be different. Rorschach had asked her yesterday, at Daniel's, to come with him tonight. He wanted to bust a large gang and thought her skill of blending in would come in useful.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she knew she was nervous. Rorschach always made her nervous. There was something about him that was terribly intriguing and yet frightening. She had talked to Laurie about it, and Laurie did not seem to understand.

"I don't see what you see in him" she had said as they stood in the bedroom she shared with Manhattan. "He has always given me the creeps. He's a damn good fighter, sure. But he's certainly not one to make much conversation. Dan and Rorschach are friends, but I think Rorschach says more words to you in a given month than he does to Dan."

"I don't know," Sayre had responded. "I just think he's interesting. Like, he's a puzzle. Everyone else here, I understand them. They are human, I can relate. Even Manhattan, I can at least attempt to comprehend where he is coming from. But Rorschach…no. I don't understand."

She needed to get ready. She had just stepped out of the shower, and was standing with her hair down, wrapped only in front of her towel. Curiously, she dropped her towel to stare at herself, naked, in front of the full size mirror. Turning a bit, she studied herself. She knew she was beautiful, desirable. Didn't the men she passed on the streets, hell, didn't Daniel and even Manhattan's gaze tell her so? She was a sensual creature. Why then was she so afraid?

Carefully, she ran her fingertips down her skin, feeling the familiar pleasure/fear as her nipples peaked and her thighs quivered. Was this wrong? She had never fucked, never. She had never met any man she wanted enough, or cared for as more than a friend. So why now? An image came unbidden to her mind, of strong arms around her, rough hands exploring this same flesh she now pursued. A constantly shifting mask, pushed up just enough for warm breath to fall on the skin of her neck, the touch of teeth on her throat as his hand…Rorschach. No.

She stopped, flushing. She was supposed to meet him in half an hour. There was no reason to stand here, imagining his hands on her. Why was she anyway? She didn't even like him, right? Right. Shrugging angrily at her reflection, she turned away from the mirror to begin dressing.

Rorschach waited in the alley where he would meet the Chameleon tonight. He was more agitated than usual; he hoped she would hurry, he needed to break a few heads in. Rorschach was unsure if asking her help in this situation was wise; but then, it wasn't he that had asked, was it? No, Walter Kovacs had surfaced in his awkward fashion and asked her, as blithe as you might like, like a nervous teenager asking for a date. And she had agreed. He had gone to see Manhattan, but she had been there as well, dressed warmly in a green sweater precisely the shade of her eyes. She had said she would be glad to help, her eyes flat and questioning, but beneath that…what? Nothing, of course. He had not seen any flicker, or if he had it was of curiosity, not pleasure.

She was late. That was unlike her. Every night they had patrolled together, she had always been a few minutes early. Ten minutes later, Rorschach found himself moving through the night, quickly, to her apartment. There were no lights on.

Her door was easy enough to force. There was no movement. It was too silent. Rorschach knew she had a cat, there should at least be some sign of life. Something was not right. When he felt the presence in the room, he spun, catching the man in the jaw with his booted foot, dropping him. Instantly, he was surrounded. Too many. He fought hard, kicking and punching, wounding several. But they were too many, even for a superhero. He was finally wrestled to the ground, looked up to see a foot swinging towards his head, and then the world went black.

When he awoke, the first thing he became aware of was the harsh brightness of the room. Opening his eyes fully, he could see that he was chained to a large steel pipe. He was in a warehouse; his head and body aching. There were men milling about, a good dozen of them. Another small group of four were in one corner, facing something he could not see.

"Ah, here's our little superhero. Awake now, eh?" One man laughed, seeing him move. "I wanted to take off your mask, but the boss, he says not yet, eh? I think you are in some deep shit, my friend."

Rorschach said nothing. One of the men in the corner had moved, revealing what they had been blocking before. The Chameleon was handcuffed, her hands suspended high above her head so that she had to stand on her toes to touch the ground. Dressed only in black panties, she was already heavily bruised, her ribs and breasts baring many darkening spots from fists and feet. One eye was almost completely swollen shut, the other looked out but appeared not to see.

The door to the warehouse opened and a large black man stepped through. His head was waxed bald, his build tremendously powerful. He looked over at Rorschach, uttered a barking laugh before turning to Sayre. Her eye opened wide when she saw him, attempting to move back away.

"Two superheroes in one night, not bad, eh boys?" the boss asked, laughing. He reached out and pinched Sayre's nipple, making her wince. Rorschach felt his breath catch. "Two little heroes to play with tonight, and this one so pretty. What you think, boys? Should I give her a taste of a real man?"

The men jeered and shouted, laughing and pushing at each other. It made Rorschach's blood boil to watch as the leader of the gang begun undoing his belt. "Hold her legs," he said. "Little bitch killed Ricardo with a kick, so you make sure you hold her legs, damn it." Rorschach saw him pull his cock out of his pants, stroking it to bring it to full erection. Then he stepped forward, blocking Rorschach's view of Sayre. He heard her cry out when he penetrated her, saw the blood dripping down onto the floor. _Her virgin blood, spilled upon this filthy floor. Virgin blood that should be spilled only in a marriage bed, staining the white sheets as ecstasy becomes real. Blood that should have been spilt a thousand miles from this dirty warehouse, spilled by a man who loved her, valued her and respected her, not by this lust driven dog._ Rorschach felt Kovac's thoughts come through strongly and pushed them down. He would kill them, all of them, if he could.

Sayre stopped crying out, her breath coming harsh and painful below the grunts of the gang leader. He was commenting on her virgin state, the tightness of her. It sickened Rorschach. It angered Kovacs.

"What you think, baby? Best fuck you will ever have, eh?" the leader asked as he stepped back, tucking himself back into his pants. "Best fuck I ever had, I'll admit. Never put much store on the virgin thing, but boy, baby, you sure changed my mind."

Sayre was trembling, but she raised her head and stared at the man. As if deciding something, she spit on him, a great glob of her spittle hitting his face. "You bitch!" the man cried, backhanding her across the face, rocking her head backwards. "Let's see if you are that brave later. Joaquin, bring the other superhero. Let's see how she likes his meat, if she doesn't like mine."

No! Rorschach found against his bonds, slamming his shoulder into the man who would have grabbed him. He would not, could not do that. Not to her, no, but not to himself either. He would die before he shamed himself that way. Suddenly, the men seemed to be backing off. There were cars pulling up, their tired rumbling over the loose gravel outside.

The men were in a panic, grabbing weapons they had discarded on the ground. All but four left the warehouse, guns and knives drawn. It seemed that a rival gang had shown up. If they were to escape, it had to be now. Rorschach looked over at Sayre. She was making small hops, attempting to get enough height to move her chains over the hook that suspended her, but without leverage to push against, she could not get high enough.

Rorschach turned his attention back to himself. The chains were too strong to break, but perhaps he could work them off the pipe? He would try anyway. Keeping a close eye on the four men standing by the door, who seemed more preoccupied with the yells and shots being fired outside, Rorschach began working the chain against the pipe.

"Ssh," a voice whispered in his ear. Rorschach froze. Sayre was gone from her place on the hook, the hook bent down. She must have used her force to bend the hook down enough to slide off the end. Her invisible hands began working at his locks, until finally, he was free. "Ready?" He nodded. Not five seconds later, one of the guards at the door was lifted off the ground, seemingly by nothing, his neck twisted until it snapped.

Rorschach exploded into action, taking out one man with a strategic boot to the back of the head. The man dropped without a sound. The other two dogs noticed him now, coming for him, low and fast, knives out. The first, too easy, snapping his wrist and plunging his own knife into his throat, a low gurgle as he fell to the floor. The second never reached him. He tripped and fell, a large board coming down to smash in his head as he lay on the floor.

The Chameleon reappeared, naked now, her body caked in blood and grime. With a despairing sound, Rorschach removed his coat and handed it to her. She stared at his hand for a moment before taking the garment, draping it over her form.

"Can you run?" he asked.

"I think so. How far?"

"Not far. Safe place, half mile maybe."

"What of…them?"

Rorschach pointed to two semi automatic guns laying on the floor. "Can you shoot?"

"Yes."

He bent, picking up the guns and handing them to her. For himself he grabbed a large lighter from a shelf against the wall and a bottle of weed killer. It would work. "Go."

They burst from the warehouse, Chameleon going invisible again. There was full scale gang warfare going on, less than a dozen men left standing, fighting at close range with knives and brass knuckles, bullets exhausted. Sayre gunned down those closest to the door; they were dead before they registered the escape.

The leader turned his attention to Rorschach, rushing him, knife in each hand. Rorschach waited until he was close, spraying the weed killer and igniting the mixture, creating a massive fireball. The man screamed, but kept coming, his knife scoring a long shallow cut down Rorschach's stomach. An elbow to the head and he went down, hair crisping as he fell.

"Roschach!" Sayre's voice, high and frightened. He spun, searching for where the sound had come from when he felt her take his arm. "There are too many. We need to go. Now." She pulsed visible for a moment and pointed down the alley. There were more men, fresh men coming in. From what gang, he did not know, but it did not matter. They would wish to kill the masked heroes if they could.

"Rorschach, I can…I think, anyway. I can make you invisible too." The image of her pulsed slightly, going from invisible to visible and back again like a crazed light bulb. "May I?"

Rorschach looked at the oncoming men. Ten. Unwounded, he may be able to do it. But the long cut on his side was beginning to bleed freely, the myriad bruises and abrasions on his body beginning to demand a respite. He looked at Sayre, her face was apprehensive. He wasn't going to like this. "Do it."

She nodded, reaching to take his hand in hers. He felt a moment of discomfort, icy cold, but then it passed. Looking down, he could see nothing of himself. "We have to stay in touch," she told him. "Don't break hold. Now, go."

Fleeing, holding tightly to her hand through his glove, unnerved him. He could not get a free stride going; she was weakening, her steps becoming slightly faltering. Going over fences was extremely difficult, having to climb as she climbed instead of hopping up on top of them as was his wont. Rorschach was too aware of her labored breathing, the small cries of pain as she almost slipped going around corners.

He led her back to his house. No one but she knew where it was. He waited until they had gotten inside, securing the multiple locks on the door before he released her hand, his body once more becoming visible. She stepped back from him, also becoming visible. He looked at her curiously. Always before, no matter how bad she felt, she always had a bright spirit, an incorruptible goodness to her that shone like a beacon. It was gone now. She looked used, dejected. Her eyes were dead as she looked at him.

"This is your house. You took me here before." Her voice was flat.

"Yes." He was not sure what to say. "We will spend the night here. Tomorrow you may go home."

She nodded, her legs collapsing her onto the couch. It was an old piece, and he did not care if she bled on it.

"Sleep now," he told her, turning away and going into the bedroom. As tired as he was, he knew he needed to get this wound cleaned up. If it needed to be stitched, Daniel could do it tomorrow. He would not die from it. He shed his clothes in the bedroom, setting his face on the small oak dresser near the bathroom.

Standing in the shower, he allowed the water to pour over him, enjoying the heat on his tired and painful muscles. He began thinking about what had happened tonight. How had those men found Sayre? How had they known she was a superhero? She must have tried to escape them using her powers. And he, like a fool, had run into a trap that had gotten him caught as well. They had gotten out. He was essentially unhurt, other than these bruises and this one nasty cut. But would she ever be alright? He did not want to picture what had happened to her, what that despicable dog had done to her, but he could not stop his mind from recalling the high pitched cry she had tried to stifle when he had forced himself into her. Manhattan had been right; she was a virgin, not a whore. And now, that had been taken away from her.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he did not register the new sound intruding for almost a full minute. Finally, he came back to himself enough to understand that the other shower head had been turned on. His shower was large, with two large shower heads, designed to look more like a locker room shower than a customary house one. His hands clenched. How dared she? He did not even have his face on…no one saw him without his face. But Walter surfaced at that point, taking back the body that had been his for thirty-two years. Even quiet, shy, socially awkward Walter knew what to do. He turned slowly, his eyes wide as he stared at the woman in his shower.

She had her back to him, her long hair thoroughly wetted and hanging over one shoulder so that he could see her entire, from the delicate knobs at the top of her spine, down her strong back, the tiny tapered waist and the flare of the full hips, small dimples at the top of her shapely buttocks. Her legs, long, shapely, stretching down to the floor. She was covered with bruises still, the colors starkly purple against the paleness of her skin. As if she sensed his eyes on her, she looked over her shoulder, and seeing him, turned to face him fully.

He tried to keep his eyes locked onto hers, as her eyes curiously explored his face, seen for the first time. But there were distractions; her breasts, inhumanly perfect rose and fell with each of her breaths, a drop of water dancing on the tip of her left nipple; her ribs and stomach covered in scratches, bruises, and what looked suspiciously like a burn mark over her left hip. She was hairless below her eyes, all her skin smooth and pale without a hair to ruin its perfectness.

"Rorschach?" her voice sounded small, almost childish.

"Yes."

"What's your name? Your real name?"

He would have answered her, but Kovacs surfaced again. "Walter."

She smiled a bit, a sad look that did not touch her eyes, but it was the most expression she had exhibited since her rape. "Walter. Thank you."

"For what?" he nearly stammered as she stepped towards him, her arms reaching up to twine about his neck. He wanted to shove her away, to hit her, hurt her, to teach her that she must never, ever do as she was doing. It wasn't safe. It wasn't right.

"For being there," she said softly, cocking her head to the left, her eyes fixed on his. "I fully expected to die tonight; would have died, at my own hand if not by theirs. But you saved me."

"You released yourself. Released me." His voice had regained its harsh emotionless quality, and that was good.

"I had to. I am not sure I would have tried, if you had not been there. I didn't think I could, but I could not let you die and have it be my fault. I couldn't."

"All die."

"Yes. But not you, not yet. Not before…"

"Before?" He was perplexed. Her eyes were very large, their pupils retracted to almost catlike slits.

"Before I could do this," she said simply, standing up on her toes to press her lips to his.

Walter Kovacs, who had only been kissed once in his adult life, and that by a drunken friend over a decade ago, felt himself freeze in panic. Rorschach, who had never been kissed, nor ever had any desire to be kissed, was positively apoplectic with rage, and incapacitated with it. He wanted to tell her to step back; he really did not want to have to hurt her.

But for the first time since Rorschach came into existence and commanded this body, he was pushed aside. Walter Kovacs, his heart pounding, allowed his arms to wrap around the naked woman, allowed his lips to soften against hers. Had she shown an ounce of whorish tendency, no doubt Rorschach would have taken control again and knocked her into the wall. As it was, she kissed him softly, her body pressed the full length of his, the first touch of her tongue against his tentative and unsure, almost afraid. She gasped softly when one of his hands accidently grazed her naked breast, but instead of pulling away like he was sure she would (of course she will), she moved closer to him.

"Sayre," he murmured against her skin as he lowered his head to kiss the soft skin at her neck, his tongue finding a small bleeding cut on her neck. He could feel her heart beating, too fast, against his chest. She was afraid. He straightened then, taking a step back from her, letting the hot water spill over his body. "No."

She opened her eyes and looked at him, taking in his well muscled body. Although not tall or particularly imposing, he was well built, his chest , arms and back a bodybuilder in miniature. His legs were strong, his hips sharp. He was visibly excited, his penis rising to a salute past the light down of red hair there.

"Why?" she asked.

"Would not debase you, not for anything." He tried to make her understand, knowing that she never would. "First woman who is not a whore, first woman to see me. I would not ruin you."

"Walter. Rorschach. We've known each other for what…a half year? You did not like me; I didn't really like you either. But over the past few months, I've grown to…care…for you. You make a good partner, you are very real, unlike the others. There is something about you that interests me. The others, for all their openness would not have reacted like you did tonight. I would not have been able to get out of my bonds for them. Even if I had, they would all have been so damn sorry after, they would not know what to say, what to do. But you, you are still near me, and you don't look at me with revulsion. Even though, now, by your own definition, I am no longer pure."

"No," he growled. "You did not choose that. Your innocence was taken, not thrown away. Your soul is still pure."

"But my body is not."

"No."

"Walter, please. I do not want to be haunted by tonight for the rest of my life. Please, make my memory better."

"What would you have me do?" He thought he knew, but he was unsure. He had never been intimate with a woman, and while he knew the practice in theory, he had never engaged in it.

"Make love to me." She said it almost defiantly, her chin raised as if she expected him to refuse her. He was. He had to.

"Sayre…"

She raised her hands then, to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. "I've seen you in your mask a thousand times. But I've seen you without it too, you know. Several times, usually around my apartment. You followed me."

"Yes." His voice was hoarser than usual at her proximity.

"Please, Walter. Let me forget the stench of him, the pain of him. Let me remember, forever, only you, your blue eyes above me, your arms around me. Please." She drew his head down, searching his eyes for an answer that his lips would not give, and kissed him again, her hands resting against the hard, unmoving planes of his chest.

Then something in him gave, and he picked her up. For a moment he was unsure of what he meant to do with her, hold her or throw her, but she never panicked, wrapping her arms about him. His decision seemingly made for him, he kicked open the door to the bedroom and carried her to the bed, setting her down, dripping wet, in the center.

She leaned on her elbows, her upper body raised, staring up at him as he stood at the foot of the bed in silent wonder. She was so beautiful, even covered in bruises, with one eye swollen almost shut. Far too beautiful for him. And yet she stared at him as if she wanted him, her eyes devoid of any disgust or distaste. Her knees were just parted, an open invitation. Gently, he put one knee on the foot of the bed, and she sat straight up, thighs opening as she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up to her.

He kissed her then, for the first time. Her lips were so soft, her tongue tentative but eager against his. Surely this was not whorish, was it? His hand came up, gently stroking her neck as he kissed her. As he slowly moved lower, finding a nipple already taut and hard against his palm, he was shocked deeply. Her one good eye opened to stare at him then, and she whispered his name, hand entangling itself in his damp hair.

He was afraid. He did not want to hurt her, and yet, his desire, tamed for so many years, came roaring to life. He wanted to let his body knew what it knew how to do. With an iron will that had as many years of practice as his body, he kept himself in check, gently caressing her skin with his fingertips. The bruises livid against her skin reminded him of his real face, discarded for the first time since he had taken it up years ago. As his hand moved between her legs, she whimpered, raising her knees to give him better access.

"Please, Walter," she kissed him, lifting her hips up so that it met his hand. She was damp there too, like the rest of her body, but it was a completely different sort of dampness. He felt the spot she would have him touch and watched, breathless, as her back arched into his. Her free hand snaked down to circle his engorged cock, clumsily and endearingly touching it. No one had ever touched him with such awe and curiosity before. It was a heady feeling.

She was strong. She grasped his shoulders and moved him between her legs. Suddenly he was on top of her, his hands coming to rest on either side of her head as if in a pushup, staring down at her face. His knees and lower legs rested on the bed, his body held between his hands and his knees, raised. She raised her knees, the skin unbearably soft against his own skin, sliding her legs around him, ankles locking at the base of his spine.

"Don't want to hurt you."

"I don't care, I don't care," she begged. "Rorschach, Walter, please!" She reached down to encircle him again and led him to her entrance. As he entered her, he was struck by the heat she produced, and the tightness of her opening. He wasn't sure he could fit himself into this small of a hole. It took over a minute of slow adjusting, both of them breathing heavily before he was sheathed in her flesh. Unsure of exactly what to do, he tried a small thrust, deeply shocked at the sensations that even that small motion produced.

She began rolling her hips in time with his thrusts, her arms alternating between around his neck and clutching at his back. Finally, he found the right rhythm, his body fitting perfectly to hers. She began making small cries, deep in her throat, both eyes closed. Sayre pulled him down to her, kissing him hard before burying her face in his shoulder as he overpowered her, years of pent up lust and hatred of his act spilling over into the finding of pleasure. She felt his muscles begin to bunch under her hands, feeling her own body meet its climax. Like running off a cliff, it was frightening; exhilarating too, the pleasure hitting her in long waves as he spent himself deep inside of her.

Carefully, he rolled off her, laying on his back. She curled up into his side, one hand finding his hand and gently twining her fingers with his calloused ones, smiled at him.

_Rorschach's Journal._

_5 October,1982. 4:37am._

_She's sleeping._

_Sleeping, her face buried into my pillow. She's smiling._

_Why?_

_Walter feels for her. I understand why. She's the best thing he'll ever have._

_But why does she want him? Why does she want me?_

_Don't understand. This bothers me. She bothers me._

_Couldn't let her die, but now, can't let her go._

_Should leave. It's almost dawn. Leave and what?_

_Pretend it never happened? No good at pretending._

_Walter wants her. She intrigues me. She's strong, but weak too._

_Woman weak, woman strong._

_She murmurs my name. Smiles. Murmurs Walter's name._

_She knows we are separate. She calls for both of us._

_Walter wants to go to her; I will not._

_Must leave her._

When Sayre woke in the morning, she first registered the dull ache in her body. When she was in high school, she had been an accomplished dancer. Often, she would wake with these sorts of aches, although less. Now, however, it was a novel thing, to wake feeling as if every muscle was screaming.

As she struggled to sit up, she realized that this was a lot more than simple overexertion that was causing her muscles to ache. She opened her eyes, shocked that she could not open one eye past half mast. The memory of the previous night flooded her mind. It had been so terrible…and then, it had been so perfect. Now she knew where she was. She was in Rorschach's home, in Rorschach's bed. Gingerly, she stood.

The door opened and Rorschach entered, checking at the sight of her standing naked in his room. The two heroes stared at each other for a moment before Rorschach proffered what he had been carrying. He had slipped off to her apartment and gathered some clothes for her. Murmuring her thanks, Sayre took the bundle, seeing her favorite sweater, a bright magenta garment, long sleeved and long waisted. He had also brought her black tights that she usually wore with this sweater, a matching black bra and panties, and a pair of low heels.

After staring at each other for a few more seconds, Sayre looked down. He turned to go. "Rorschach?"

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder. She turned red, the blush suffusing her cheeks. "Thanks."

"Welcome."

After she dressed and ran her fingers through her hair, Sayre ventured out into the living room. Rorschach was waiting for her, lounging on the couch, perusing a book. When he saw her, he stood. "Need to go see Daniel. You too; he might be able to do something about the swelling on your eye."

"Alright."

"Is something going on between Rorschach and the Chameleon?" Silk Spectre asked Dr. Manhattan. They were standing in the hallway outside Ozymandius' meeting room. The law had just been passed, outlawing "masked vigilantes." The age of the superhero was over, but they would meet one last time in costume before trying to work their way into normal society.

"I do not know. Why do you ask?" the large blue man asked.

"I don't know. I know she's always had a fascination with them, and all of a sudden they are acting….weird."

"How so?"

"Like they have some inside joke," Laurie shook her head. "I don't know, its just strange. But they never really seemed like they had any sort of relationship before, and now…its like they do but are pretending that they don't. They stand too close, or too far. They always seem to not be looking at each other, like it's intentional."

"Perhaps they are together." Manhattan mused. "He did seem to be fixated on her, not in a positive way though. But maybe it has changed."

"I don't know what she could see in him, though. He's so…creepy."

Just then, the elevator dinged and Rorschach stepped out. He nodded to Manhattan and Silk Spectre, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets.

"You came up in the elevator this time," Manhattan said, his voice almost amused.

Rorschach made his familiar acknowledgment sound deep in his throat, before saying. "Ozymandius requested I not terrify his guards by climbing the building this time."

Laurie had to stifle a giggle. The last time they had all gathered here, Rorschach had caused quite a stir with Ozymandius' people by climbing straight up the building. Rorschach had seemed quite unapologetic, but obviously he had heeded Ozymandius and not done it again.

"No one else here yet?"

"Not yet. Ozymandius is upstairs still in a meeting. The Comedian isn't here yet, nor is the Chameleon." Laurie watched Rorschach when she said this last, but he did not seem to respond. After a few more moments of quiet, the elevator dinged again.

Rorschach, who had been wandering the waiting room, being amused by Adrian's antiques, looked up. The Comedian stepped out, and behind him, Sayre. She looked smug about something, and there was a palm shaped red mark on the Comedian's face. Rorschach smiled to himself.

Laurie watched the Rorschach and the Chameleon, hoping their reactions would give the status of their relationship away. Unfortunately, they were the two with the hardest expressions to read, Rorschach's mask making it completely impossible, and the Chameleon with only her mouth showing. Did her mouth turn up in the corners in a smile? Laurie wasn't sure.

When Adrian finally came downstairs to welcome them into the parlor, Rorschach chose to stand near where Sayre had taken a seat. She kept her gaze studiously averted, instead choosing to smile at Adrian himself. What was going on?

"As you know, from today on, anything we do in public is illegal. This is the last time we can wear our costumes. No more hunting down scum," Adrian said.

"The gutters will be overrun," Rorschach growled.

Adrian held up his hand. "Be that as it may, it is no longer our duty. Now, I can not stop any of you from doing as you will, but if you are caught, you will be arrested. I highly suggest you use your abilities to create normal lives for yourselves. Of course, any of you are welcome to apply at Veigt Enterprises, I am more than confident that I could use any of you, and provide for you very well indeed."

"Thanks for the offer, Adrian," Daniel said, lifting his goggles so that the others could see his eyes. "But I, for one, am going to try and live normally. Beer with the guys on Friday, catch up on my reading, maybe go back to school. Who knows."

"I think we should try and keep in touch, though," Laurie mused. "I mean, we've all been together so long, except for the Chameleon. It would be a shame to lose touch."

"Of course. It'll be like a superhero phone tree," the Comedian laughed.

"No, it is a good idea," Manhattan said. He leaned up against a set of marble bookshelves. "We have been, if not friends, colleagues for years. It is imperative that we keep the communication open."

"That's easy," Adrian shrugged. "You all know where I live. I am not afraid for my identity to be public, but I know some of you will wish to keep yours private. Manhattan, you have already been offered a position with the government; you and our dear Silk Spectre will be housed accordingly, and easy to find. Daniel has lived in the same place for years. That leaves Blake, Rorschach and Sayre."

"I wander," the Comedian shrugged. "I have my home; I'll give you the address, Adrian, but if any of you show up uninvited, be prepared to explain yourselves, and it had better be important."

"I'm going back to college. You can always find me there. My housing situation is a bit unsettled at the moment, but I'll let you know when I know." Sayre rested her head on the back of her chair. Rorschach's gloved hand was less than two inches from her head, curled around the back of the chair.

"Rorschach?"

"Find me if you need me. Don't have a concrete home."

Within six months, they have developed a rather comfortable routine for the both of them. She has learned to tell exactly when he is Rorschach and when he is Walter. He allows himself to be Walter more often than he ever could before in the past. His time is almost split between the man he was born, and the man he has created himself. They never get up before noon. Day is spent however seems best. Sayre goes to college, where she majors in psychology, much to Rorschach's irritated amusement. She has an easy time with her classes, almost effortlessly memorizing what takes other student's hours of repetition. Walter has a job working in a tailors; he is skilled at his work, although quiet enough that he makes the owner nervous.

Both are home by seven, every night. They have a quick dinner together in the small one bedroom home Sayre has purchased with her inheritance. They don't talk much; they don't need to. When he is Walter, Sayre will often sit in his lap in a thin silk nightgown as they talk, or watch old movies. When he is Rorschach, she sits at his side, her hands often busy with a crossword puzzle or other trivial game.

At ten, they head out. He wears his customary outfit, a costume for all its casualness. She wears different clothes, always with her hair plaited down her back to prevent it getting in the way. Most nights she wears black head to toe, tight fitting clothes so that she has freedom of movement. Other nights, so reminiscent it can make him laugh as Walter, she dresses like a prostitute and wanders, seemingly aimlessly, in truth, never far from him.

Tonight she is dressed in black tights and a form fitting black turtleneck, black boots. She manages to look chic, and she knows it. Just before they step out the door, she slams him against the wall. This has become something of a game for them both, a game Rorschach understands, but Kovacs still fears. They have not played it through to its fruition, but it is getting there. It began one night, three and more months ago, when he had made a deprecating comment about himself. She was currently being pursued by two men at her school that could not believe a woman like she was unattached. Since he refused to show his presence publicly in that manner, she had nothing other than her word to tell them that she was seeing someone. One of the men in particular was known for being good looking, and wealthy besides, a man any woman would favor.

She had asked him to go to the opera with her. They were doing Fauste, and she wanted to see it. He had refused, pulling on his face, turning back to say: "Ask Anthony Dillinger. He'll go with you." Anthony Dillinger was the more persistent of the two men at her school. With a hiss, she had moved in front of him and swung. He had put his arm up to shield himself from the blow even as he bent back to avoid it, causing only her long nails to leave deep scoring marks across his forearm. He had looked at them for a moment, the blood welling up, a low growl in his throat. He had grabbed her hands, holding them in his until he could feel the bones crack. An ounce more pressure and they would shatter. Her eyes had been blazing, as if daring him to do it. He could not. He had released her and stormed out, not returning for three days.

After this incident, there have been almost regular displays of dominance and aggressiveness on both their parts. Both seeking to wound, to anger the other, almost daring each other to see who is stronger. They both know he is. But they know she is faster, and they wonder who would win. Tonight, when she slams him into the wall, he is ready for her. He grabs her arms, hard, leaving bruises on the tender flesh there. She laughs. She tried to claw at his hands; this is expected. What is not expected is the sharp knee to the sternum that seems to come out of nowhere. He releases her as he grunts with pain, and she is out the door, moving fast.

They have never taken their game out of doors before. She has the advantage, with her powers. He steps out, cautiously, making sure the door closes behind him. She has learned to move quietly. She is dangerous. Rorschach is excited; Kovacs is confused. This deadly game is just the sort that Rorschach desires. He makes his way out into the street, his jacket turned up, hat pulled down. If she wants to play in this fashion, let her. But it will be on his terms.

He makes it to a small alley. He can occasionally hear her footsteps following him, but never very close. One of the whores on the corner calls out to him, clutching at her silicon breasts in offering. Less than ten seconds later, she is face down in the gutter, the victim of an invisible foot, making her sprawl into the filthy gutter. Rorschach laughs to himself, before carefully tucking himself into a small space between the edge of one building and another. The way the shadows lie, he is almost impossible to see from the angle she will be coming.

And come she does. He hears her breath, soft, but just audible with frustration as she steps in front of him. He can see from the imprint she leaves in the dirt that she is facing away, probably looking at the dumpster on the opposite wall. As fast as he can, he grabs hold of her about the waist. Immediately she becomes visible, attempting to slap him off. He picks her off the ground, tossing her into the corner where she lands in a heap, rolling away. She is dazed, it makes her slow.

He grabs her again, pressing her against the brick wall. Sayre attempts to bring her knee up again, but he wrenches her head back, his hand in her hair at the base, almost at her scalp. She bends back, dropping to her knees in front of him.

"Well," she laughs, her back bent, immobilized. "Somehow it seems we've been like this before. The first day we met."

"Hmm." He remembers that day well. He had been disgusted with her position, being so close, and she had grown embarrassed. That was a year ago. Now, though, it excited Rorschach in a very primal way to have her on her knees before him. Kovacs never lets her; he is too shy, too gentle. He would consider that degradation, and he wants no part in degrading the woman he has come to care for. But Rorschach…he would like to see her degraded, and he thinks that perhaps even she would like to be degraded in this way.

Rorschach himself has never had any sexual contact with Sayre. That is a realm he leaves entirely up to Kovacs. The most he has had from her have been a few embraces when she desires him to hold her, even when he is not Walter. He has a revelation, with her on her knees before him. She loves Walter; she has confessed this last week, and Walter feels the same. But inside Walter is also Rorschach, and she also cares for him. To her, even though separate personalities, they both make up the man she loves. She will fulfill all of Walter's desires; should she not also fulfill Rorschach's?

One hand still in her hair, he begins fumbling with his belt. She sees what he means to do, and her eyes grow wide in questioning. But she strains forward, her fingers far more deft than his gloved ones to unclasp his belt and work his zipper. With a few flicks, he springs free, fully erect and pulsing in the cool night air.

On her knees, on the dirt of an alley, she does not care. She reverently laps at his cock, her eyes staring up at him as he gazes down at her from behind his face. Her face burns with embarrassment, but she follows his guiding hand in her hair with only a small whimper before taking him into her mouth. He is too big for her to take him completely, but she tries anyway, until she can go no further and gags. He holds her like this for a moment, watching the tears appear in her eyes. Then he releases the pressure on her head, allowing her to back off. She does, setting to work in long, slow strokes, her mouth warm and wet around him. She is inexperienced, and this excites him.

Soon, he is holding her head in his hands, unable to keep his hips from making small thrusts as she brings him closer to the edge. With a cry, he goes to push her back before he spills, but she does not let him, allowing him to shoot into her mouth, which she swallows. He can feel her swallowing against the head of his cock.

He tucks himself back in, redoes his belt, and pulls her to her feet. Daintily, she wipes her mouth with her fingers, but he pushes her against the wall again, lifting his face just enough so that he can kiss her. Her mouth tastes like her, but it tastes like him too. He continues to kiss her as he snakes one hand down her tights, under the lace underwear she insists on wearing, to cup her heated flesh. Kovacs is improving his skills as a lover; almost every night Sayre and Walter have sex, their curiosity still not sated. He is no longer shy to touch her, indeed, he has begun to enjoy pressing his mouth to her pussy, tasting the juices there, bringing her to almost crying pleasure. Rorschach needs no such niceties. In his brain are all the skills that Kovacs has learned, plus all the coarse talk he has heard, and a will to put it into action. His fingers are not gentle as he presses two of them up inside her. She cries out at first, but her body quickly accepts his invasion. He uses his thumb to stimulate her as he thrusts up inside of her, the greater weight of his body holding her unmoving against the wall.

When she begins to move in time with his fingers, her gasps becoming louder, her climax imminent, he kisses her again, biting her lip. "No." He tells her, gruffly. "Not yet." She swallows, her body shaking in an effort to obey him. Twice more he has to tell her no, and twice more she must struggle to maintain control of her body, her eyes wide and pleading although she does not utter a word.

Finally he leans in and whispers: "Now." Her head lulls forward to rest on his shoulder as her body clenches around his fingers. Her entire frame goes weak; if he were not holding her up he is sure she would collapse. She shudders against him, the muscles surrounding his fingers quivering like mad. When it is over, he removes his fingers, guiding them to her mouth. She licks them clean. He kisses her once more, enjoying the taste of she and he together in her mouth before pulling his mask back down all the way.

"Can you stand?" he asks.

"I…yes." She says. She is trembling, but smiling too.

"Good. Want to go down to 42nd? Papers say drug problems are worst there."

She almost looks puzzled, as if she can not comprehend him. But then she nods. "Sure, why not?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Oops! Sorry, guys! I've been having all sorts of technical errors with the site, including my own user errors, so I wanted to apologize at having this be so long. Thank you to everyone who has put the time in to read my story and write the helpful reviews.**

**I confess to being rather new to the Watchmen world, having heard of it less than two months ago. I've never been much of a girl for comic books, so I'm way behind. So far I have only read through the comic once, and seen the movie a few times, so I apologize for wrong dates, etc. I'm working on it though ******

**Also, this was intended to be multiple chapters, so I am going to try and upload it again properly; see if I can get it done without any mess-ups!**

**Finally, I fully and utterly recognize the fact that Rorschach/Walter would most likely never have any relationship with a woman. But….but….I want him to! I like him! So, in my universe, he can. He may have issues with it, but he will. So there. *Childish pouty face***

**Also, the usual. I don't own any of the original characters. Thanks!**

"Hey, Rorschach, have you met the new girl?" Nite Owl stopped his masked companion as he was leaving Ozymandius' home after the meeting. The two were the first to leave, the remainder of the Watchmen still sitting upstairs in the parlor, no doubt enjoying drinks and talking.

"Unaware we had one," Rorschach paused, turning his masked face to the only fellow superhero that he could call friend. "Did not see anyone upstairs that is not always there."

"Well, we do. She's actually at my house. She's met everyone already, except you and Ozymandius."

"Why didn't she come then, and meet the whole gang?" Rorschach said the last word with a sneer, as if he did not think that their group of superhero's really worked as a unit.

Nite Owl shrugged. "Manhattan suggested that she not. He does not think Ozymandius will like her, or want to accept her. He thinks he will find her too young, too pretty, too reckless."

"Doubt her physical appearance matters in her ability."

"No, but it is pleasant to look at her. Dr. Manhattan is quite taken with her; well, at least as taken as he can seem to be, you know. The Comedian of course….adores her. Of course, the Silk Spectre is less charmed."

Rorschach laugh, a short barking sound. "Of course; being replaced as the object of lust in the Watchmen must be terrible," he said sarcastically. "And what does this new super-human style herself as?"

Nite Owl shook his head; it would be impossible to get his friend to see a woman as anything other than a whore. "She doesn't. As I said, she's very young. She has never done any crime-fighting, but her abilities are remarkable. For someone completely untrained, she is formidable indeed. Manhattan calls her the Chameleon."

"What does Silk Spectre call her?"

"'That woman' I believe," he said wryly. "Will you come meet her?"

"Had other plans."

"Like what? Roaming the city and being disgusted at…what? 'The dregs of society?' Come on, Rorschach. It's not every night you meet a new Watchmen."

Rorschach hesitated, then shrugged. "Very well. At least I can meet her and add her face to my safe list."

"Safe list?"

"People I am not supposed to kill."

Nite Owl opened the door to his house, stepping back to let Rorschach through. Having been here many times in the past, Rorschach was immediately struck by the permeation of femininity throughout his friend's formerly bachelor home. The furniture was the same, large masculine chairs in square shapes, tables that did not match, but now, instead of the customary laundry smell, there was an almost citrus smell on the air, apparently coming from a number of candles that had been placed and lit around the room. A large throw pillow had been tossed on the leather couch, a light green blanket spread over the edge of the couch, as if someone who had been wrapped up in it had just gotten up. A book was turned over on the coffee table, next to a large glass with a few drops of dark red wine still at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, the book was no romance novel or shoddy bestseller, like he had expected. It was a book of ethics, comprising the Greek philosophers as well as more modern philosophers.

"Oh, Dan, your back!" a woman's voice called, coming closer. "I wasn't expecting you until…" She paused as she stepped into the room, her eyes widening as they fell on Rorschach, flitting to Nite Owl as if to check his reaction.

"Sayre, this is Rorschach. He's one of us."

"I can see that." Her eyes looked him over. In the dimness of the living room, her eyes were bright, vividly green like a cat's. She wore red and black flannel pajama pants and a black tank top, obviously Dan's. She was an average height woman, but her nondiscriptiveness stopped there. Nite Owl had been right, she was young, and no doubt those ruled by their hormones would find her irresistible indeed. Her hair was black, hanging down her shoulders, and full, taking the light of the candles. Her skin was very pale, her features delicate and almost kittenish. Her body though. Rorschach frowned behind his mask. She looked more like a woman for adult videos than crime fighting. Even in casual men's pajamas, her soft curves and lush form invited lust.

"I'll be right back. I gotta get out of this costume. Rorschach, grab a beer if you want."

As he left the room to go down into his basement and stylized lair, the woman stepped towards him, her heady and yet clean feminine smell almost suffocating him. She cocked her head to the left. "Well?"

"What?"

"Do I meet with your approval? Dr. Manhattan warned that you, even more than Ozymandius, would be the most critical of me. Dan likes you, for some reason, but so far all you have done is stare at me like I am some sort of disease."

"You can not see my eyes."

"No, but I can feel them on me. I'm pretty used to the stares of men, you know, and I know what the different stares feel like. Yours is not kind, or lustful, or any of the other looks I am accustomed to receiving. So, what?"

"Have not formed an opinion of you. Will hold off until I see you perform."

"Oh, but now I think you are lying. You have formed an opinion of me, and I don't think its favorable. Perhaps we can change this. If I were ugly, would you like me better?"

Rorschach huffed. "Makes no difference to me if you are pretty or ugly. You can fight as well as you can either way, and you will die either way."

"Hmm," a slight smile touched her lips. "Would you like to test my abilities then? All the others have, and have not found them wanting; even Laurie, who very much wanted to see me fail."

"Was this in bed, or out?"

Her eyes narrowed, teeth almost bared, before she relaxed and laughed. "Dan was right. Ah well, you may hold onto your misconceptions if it pleases you, Rorschach. But contrary to what you think, not all women are whores, and many of us do have dignity."

"Have they tested your abilities against their own?" he asked as she began to turn away.

"You mean, have I fought them? No. Dan said we do not fight each other. He's had me begin learning some formal martial arts, but mostly they have tested my speed and my power."

"Which is?"

She smiled, and then disappeared. Rorschach froze. He could sense her presence, but not locate her.

"You turn invisible?"

"No," her voice breathed in his ear. Lightning fast, he spun, his hand touching her hair. Grabbing at it, he fought with her, no blows, only strength on strength. It was disconcerting, not being able to see her. After a moment though, he was able to see almost her outline in the room as it rippled before him.

All at once she became visible again and Rorschach froze. She was on her knees between his legs, both her hands raised, clutching at his that held her hair. Her mouth was a mere inch from the zipper on his pants, her cat eyes tilted up to his face. With a wordless curse, he let her go, shoving her head back and stepping away.

"Oh, Rorschach!" She began giggling, hands pressed over her lips like a child. "I am sorry, but oh, that was funny. You….you…."

Rorschach waited. Finally, she stopped laughing, standing up slowly, shaking out her hair. "Now do you see?"

"Dr. Manhattan calls you the Chameleon. You take on your background."

"Yes. Rorschach, why are you afraid of women?"

He puts his hands deep in his pockets. He does not like this girl, with her too frank stare, her absolute confidence, her challenging posture. "I fear nothing."

"Then why are you uncomfortable around me? When I was on my knees, I felt you tremble, and then you recoil. Why?"

"You understand nothing."

"Was it because of my position? Did you honestly think…oh."

"Yes, oh," he sneered. He could hear Daniel coming up from the basement behind him. "Even unintentionally, you show your whorish tendencies. And yet, there is something so…so damn innocent about you. A whore before you have been jaded. A biological disease."

Less than a week later, Rorschach was wandering the streets. The overhead clock outside one of the bars read 11:58pm. Almost midnight; almost time for another day to be born, a day that would breed more hate, more filth. Rorschach despised it.

The whores were out in force tonight, their creamy, diseased mounds of flesh displayed for any man to see, clad in too short skirts, unbuttoned shirts. Like higher-level rodents, they roamed freely about the town, always seeking their next meal, their next john. And like rodents, they become background noise when one knows they are there. Rorschach ignored them.

Until, that is, his gaze was caught by one who shone like a beacon among all the filth. Her skirt was not any longer than any other whore, her shirt no less abbreviated, and yet…he slowed. That lustrous black hair, today caught up in a loose ponytail was unmistakable. The features, even caked with pounds of bright colored makeup, shone through as almost feline, the vivid green eyes taking in everything. Ignoring the calls from the other whores, Rorschach approached the newest Watchmen. She turned, seeing him coming and smiled, swaying her hips. Her stockings were ripped open in places, showing the creamy white thigh beneath.

"Already tired of the superhero job?" he asked, stopping well beyond her reach. Her eyes flashed, and she tossed her head like a common whore, her body moving in concentric, seductive circles. Even so, pretending to be like the rest of the filth, there was something about her that shone.

"Not at all," she said, her voice low as to not be overheard. "I'm doing this entirely for your benefit."

"You did not know I would be on this side of town."

"Of course not," she shrugged, then catcalled loudly to a man walking by. "Now, go away. You are ruining my cover."

Nodding curtly, he stepped back into an alley. He could still see her, but he was near concealed in the shadows. What was she doing? Not whoring herself out, no, she would not do that. She came from a higher class breed of maggot; the type that married much older men with money and called themselves wives instead of prostitutes. Not this type out on the street. Then, what? If she was already fighting crime…Daniel would not have let her out on her own already. He must be somewhere close by.

For the next half an hour, men came and went. Drawn by her youth, her obvious health and good looks, the johns were constant. Most she simply requested a price too high; they could get the same for half across the street, and away they went, with many jeers and catcalls behind them. One man, however, who seemed more persistent than the others, she led upstairs into a dilapidated building, returning a minute later without him.

Rorschach watched as one particularly dangerous looking man came walking up the street. He was no longer young, but his body was strong, and Rorschach could see at least a dozen weapons, mostly knives, on him. He was a large man, his hand massive. A bull of a man.

"Ooh, hey baby," Sayre said, startling Rorschach out of his casual observation. This was the first she had initiated with any of the passers-by. Her voice had deepened, taking on a grating quality like a smoker. She approached the man, sliding her hands up her….offering her….Rorschach stared in disgusted fascination how in one move, the shining innocence that surrounded the girl darkened into a seductive, deadly light.

The man was talking, his voice low. Rorschach couldn't hear his words, but he too seemed mesmerized by the woman who was now almost in his arms, playfully running her fingers along his belt. After a few moments of talking, they walked off together. Letting them get a ways ahead, Rorschach headed into the street, pulling up his mask so that he did not draw attention to himself. After less than a block, they turned to go up the steps of a grungy old house.

What was she doing? Rorschach needed to find out. Kicking in the door would be too obvious, he decided. He had heard the click of multiple deadbolts, and the sound it would make would be terrible. With an almost regretful sigh, he began to climb the drain pipe, his sight set on an open window on the second floor.

Once in the house, Rorschach heard panting. He felt his features pull up in disgust. Could she really be…Slowly, he made his way down the hall to a room where the sounds were coming from. The door was partially open. He could see the man Sayre had gone with lying on a bed. The man looked terrified, his face sweating, his eyes wide open. His underwear had been shoved into his mouth to serve as a gag, and his hands were cuffed to the bed frame above his head.

Suddenly the door swung open. Sayre stood, looking at him, her whore's makeup running. She did not look surprised to see him; indeed her face showed no emotion. "Rorschach. You shouldn't be here."

"Should you?" he stepped into the room. Standing so close, he could see that they were almost of a height. With her heels on, she was perhaps less than an inch shorter than he.

"I have to be. You should go, its late. This is not superhero business."

"What is it, then?" he gestured to the man who was now looking at him with pleading eyes. Rorschach could see the collection of knives and two guns Sayre had collected from the man sitting on a table just out of the man's reach.

She turned back to him, her eyes dead. "Revenge."

"You will not leave?" she asked him. He backed to the wall, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "Very well. But do not dare try and stop me, Rorschach. Your presence gives your consent. If you stop me, I will do everything in my power to kill you. Understand?"

"Yes."

She nodded, turning back to the bound man. "You know, Peter M. Jacobi, I am _so_ glad we finally got to have this chat. You've been enjoying the past five years, it seems. You have certainly gotten fatter, but it looks well on you." She picked up one of his knives. "I'm not a sadist, you know. I don't like hurting people. But you, you forfeited your right to humanity for what you did to my sister. Besides, I think you deserve to hurt, at least as much as she did, right? And maybe some more, for the pain you put me through. What do you think?"

The man attempted to speak, but the gag prevented his words from being intelligible. Even so, Sayre was nodding along with him. "Yes, yes. I know, you will protest your innocence at first. But lets not do that, ok? That's why I am not going to let you talk. You did it. You murdered my sister in the worst possible way. I don't want, or need, to hear you break down and apologize for it. Your screams, and then the cessation of your life will be enough for me. You don't have to thank me."

Rorschach watched as she moved to the man's feet, which were tied with a long piece of rope to the bed. She picked up a long thin instrument from the table. It appeared to be a hair piece, but Rorschach could see the sharpened edge. It looked strong, perhaps made of steel. Taking the man's foot in her hand, she touched the tip to his ankle. The man tried to scream then, shaking his head. Sayre's expression hardened just a bit as she stabbed the needle into his ankle, forcing it through to the other side, through tendons. The man did scream then, but the gag prevented the noise from being overly loud.

"Oh, don't faint on me yet, Jacobi. We've got a long night ahead of us." Sayre smiled, a tight, humorless grin.

The clock read 3:57am. Rorschach was walking back down the same street, this time with an added, unwanted burden in his arms. Sayre had tortured the man for almost three hours before he had died, finally. She had broken most of the bones in his body, castrated him, and had begun to flay him before he finally went into shock and died. Sayre herself had then stood up, covered in blood and tears, taken a few wobbly steps towards the door, and collapsed. When Rorschach had tried to awaken her, he had gotten no response.

Perturbed at what he must do, he stared at her prone form for over a minute, deciding. She lay on her side, one arm covering her face. Her skirt had ridden up so that he could see black lace beneath it. This angered him, worse, it almost infuriated him. He wanted to kick her; would have, if he had thought she would show any reaction. He should leave her here…but to do so was…unthinkable. Gritting his teeth, he bent and picked her up. Although dead weight, she seemed too light.

Now, he paused. Where could he take her? Not back to Daniel's, not looking like this. No. _Damn her_, he thought. He could only take her back to his flat. She could return to Daniel's later, when she had woken. As he turned onto his street, a small street made up of small one bedroom houses that had seen better days, he felt her shift, her arms winding about his neck. He almost dropped her then, but felt that she was not actually awake yet. She had not intentionally touched him, it was a reaction of her unconscious mind.

He kicked open the door, hearing the lock bust; he would have to put a new one in later, but he didn't have an extra hand to unlock it right now. Stumbling now, he made it to the bedroom where he released her on one side of the large bed. The bed had simple white sheets, no comforter or blankets. She was dirty, she should not be on clean sheets, but it could not be helped. He could not bathe her.

Leaving her there, he went into the bathroom, locking the door carefully behind him. He voided his bladder and turned on the shower. Slowly, he removed his coat, his hat, his shirt. Finally, his mask. Staring at himself in the mirror, the flesh face beneath his true face, he was surprised to see himself look so emotional. He looked nervous. Those greenish eyes were darting everywhere, his lip being worried by his teeth. His hair, a dull red, had a craziness to it. Turning away from the mirror in disgust, he shed his shoes and pants and stepped into the shower.

Getting out, he realized he was tired. His body ached, and he wanted to sleep. With his towel wrapped around him, he snuck back into the bedroom, but he needn't have worried. Sayre was still completely unconscious on the bed. Quickly, he dressed, pulling his mask back on. He didn't remember having picked it up in the bathroom, but here it was. He settled, gingerly, on the edge of the big bed, as far away from the woman as he could. Within minutes he was asleep.

Rorschach came awake all at once. The sun was fully up, and things were not as they should be. He looked down. He was propped up against the wall, half sitting on the bed. He had slept like this, all night. The woman, instead of being on her side of the bed where she ought to be, was pressed up against him, her face resting on his hip, her arm curved over his lap, her small hand resting in his hand which hung loose at his side. Rorschach was horrified. How dared she touch him? But then he noticed his other arm, cupped around her back, his own hand resting comfortably on the curve of her ass. No!

Sayre felt his muscles tighten and woke up. With a restrained hiss, he pushed her off him and stood, fighting the pins and needles in his legs. She looked around, saw him and looked puzzled. She shifted, pulling her legs underneath her. With most of her makeup rubbed off, she looked a little lost.

"Rorschach? What…what's going on? Where are we?"

"Just a house," he told her. "You passed out. It was too late to take you back to Daniel's."

"You stayed with me all night?" she asked him, ruffling her hair. He nodded. "Damn. Thank you, I think. But I should go."

"I'll take you back to Daniel's."

"Thanks."

He did not see her much over the next few weeks. He was glad. She made him uncomfortable, more than the Silk Spectre ever could. He saw her a few times, mostly at a distance. A college girl, she was. She had a small apartment near the school where she lived alone, paid for by wealthy parents, he though. He had seen her on her balcony when he had taken off his real face. She did not recognize him, of course, but it allowed him to look at her without her challenging gaze. Compared to the other girls in her apartment complex, she was much more conservative. She tended to wear jeans and high necked shirts, often turtlenecks or fitted t-shirts, but even then she had a seductive quality that outshone her peers in their miniskirts and belly-baring tops.

Often when he saw her functioning in her new role as a superhero, she was with Dr. Manhattan. Whenever she saw him she would make sure and wave, causing him to grind his teeth. She seemed to sense his discomfort and did everything she could to increase it.

On this day, she was fortunately nowhere in sight. Rorschach was standing in Manhattan's underground lab, watching the blue man tinker with his experiments. "She needs a costume, Rorschach."

"Who?"

"Let us not play this game. You may pretend to not know who I am talking about, but I have seen the way you follow each other around with your eyes."

"You can not see my eyes." Rorschach retorted. Hadn't he said something similar to Sayre on the night they met?

"No. I do not need to. Have you had her?"

"Have I…No!"

"Why?"

Rorschach turned to leave, but he felt Manhattan turn him back. "I…she is impure. Filthy. She is little better than a whore, Manhattan. She breeds lust, she encourages it."

"In you. She is very pretty, and I do not deny that I would be honored to share her bed, were it not for my deep affection for Laurie. She inspires genuine like, Rorschach. Only in you does that turn to lust."

"I want to tear her apart."

"Lust is like that sometimes. But it is your lust, not hers. Sayre is innocent."

"Innocent?" Rorschach scoffed. "You have not seen her, dressed like a whore, touching…"

"Dressing like a whore to kill her sister's murderer, yes I know. We discussed it. She did not mean to wake up with her arm around you. Nor, I think, did you intend to wake with your arm around her."

"She should not touch me. Ever. Now let me go."

"As you wish," Manhattan sighed, letting him leave. "But Rorschach…the girl is a virgin. She may act the whore at times, but she is not."

Rorschach looked to the girl on his left. She was having a bit of trouble keeping pace with him tonight, but they all did. He was quick; he walked with a purpose. She did not have his rhythm down yet, the short hurried steps that required very little effort on the body. Still trying to walk as she was used to, with long loose strides, she had to struggle to keep up.

Somehow it was easier to look at her when she was in her costume. Adopting Manhattan's moniker for her, Sayre had also allowed the superhuman to commission a suitable outfit for her masked escapades. Ozymandius had, surprisingly, accepted the girl with little outward qualm and had indeed funded the creation of her costume. The material was skintight as latex, hugging every curve of her supple frame, of a shifting silver green color. The material covered her entire body, from the top of her head to her toes. Only the lower half of her face was bare skin, the goggles that were so akin to Nite Owl's over her eyes and nose. The costume was created so that her hair stuck up like a lengthy Mohawk, in great jagged spikes from the top of her head. Manhattan had touched them to make them stand like that, giving her the look of a lizard as well as the name.

She did not try to talk to him except as necessary for their work. Although when she saw him outside of partnering him at night, she still waved and smiled in an attempt to make him uncomfortable; at night, she was all business. Keeping about ten feet to his left, she flickered in and out of visibility, letting her power take over or not as she willed. He recognized the hunter in her, and knew she was proficient. Not having the moral scruples of Nite Owl, she could, and did, dispatch those criminals who deserved immediate death, easily subduing those who could be incarcerated.

If she did not make him so damn uncomfortable, he might even have enjoyed working with her on patrols. She did not try to make small talk like the Silk Spectre would, filling the void with her useless chatter. She did not attempt to make things a team effort like Nite Owl always did. In fact, she often acted as if he were not even there, which suited him just fine. They walked together, fought silently except for the occasional curse, and went their separate ways in the morning.

Why, then, did he feel like there was something missing? He preferred to work solo, but all the remaining Watchmen were taking turns with the Chameleon, showing her the ropes. He found he wanted to talk to her, to at least understand why she was doing this, what was in it for her.

"Would think a girl your age would have something better to do on a Friday night," he said finally. They turned into an alley, seemingly empty for the moment.

"Better than patrolling the streets, hunting for bad guys?" she laughed.

"No dates?"

She was silent for a moment before replying. "No. I don't….go on dates."

"Hmm." He was unsure what to reply.

After a moment, she continues. "I know, it's strange. I'm twenty-three years old, and I've only been on one date in my life. No real friends to speak of. No boyfriend. No one to miss me and wonder why I am not at home at three thirty in the morning. But you must understand, Rorschach…and I think this may be true for all of us in some form or another. None of us are really social people. Sure, Silk Spectre and Nite Owl have normal lives outside of this, but even in those lives, they have no real friends, no intimate relationships. Why is that? Because none of us are normal. We can pretend to be, can be, for short period of time, but forever? No."

"No. We will never be normal."

"Relationships are hard. Relationships were there can be no equal footing, no honesty…how much harder would that be? I could not date a man that I had to have a secret life from; that I would have to break dates to save the world. I understand Silk Spectre's dilemma …all she can do is try and fill that void with the only equals that exist, fellow superheroes."

"And you?"

She paused in her step, delicately side-skirting a puddle. "What of me? I have no desire for a relationship with the men available to me. Manhattan is Laurie's. Daniel too, is infatuated with her; we shall see who she ends up with. That leaves me Ozymandius…and I don't think he has any taste for me, nor do I for him."

She never mentioned his name. She did not consider him a candidate for carnal pastimes. He should be glad, he knew. He was glad. But sometimes, in the early mornings as he crept into his bed, his mind would replay the way she moved, her young flesh working beneath that shimmering skin tight costume. Kovacs was weak without his face on. Kovacs could imagine the way her body would look without the costume covering it, replaying the few glimpses he had shamefully memorized as Rorschach.

"What of you, Rorschach? What do you do outside of this?"

"Sleep. Eat. Try to stay alive."

"No girlfriend?"

"No." He hopped a fence easily, slowing his step a moment to allow her to catch up. "Never that. I will not allow such mental contamination, such physical corruption. It is disgusting to me."

"Ah."

Months passed. It was now October. Sayre was a full-fledged Watchman now, allowed to go out on her own at will. She had taken up a regular patrol of her neighborhood, always watching. It was as good a way as any to combat the insomnia that plagued her. Tonight, though, was going to be different. Rorschach had asked her yesterday, at Daniel's, to come with him tonight. He wanted to bust a large gang and thought her skill of blending in would come in useful.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she knew she was nervous. Rorschach always made her nervous. There was something about him that was terribly intriguing and yet frightening. She had talked to Laurie about it, and Laurie did not seem to understand.

"I don't see what you see in him" she had said as they stood in the bedroom she shared with Manhattan. "He has always given me the creeps. He's a damn good fighter, sure. But he's certainly not one to make much conversation. Dan and Rorschach are friends, but I think Rorschach says more words to you in a given month than he does to Dan."

"I don't know," Sayre had responded. "I just think he's interesting. Like, he's a puzzle. Everyone else here, I understand them. They are human, I can relate. Even Manhattan, I can at least attempt to comprehend where he is coming from. But Rorschach…no. I don't understand."

She needed to get ready. She had just stepped out of the shower, and was standing with her hair down, wrapped only in front of her towel. Curiously, she dropped her towel to stare at herself, naked, in front of the full size mirror. Turning a bit, she studied herself. She knew she was beautiful, desirable. Didn't the men she passed on the streets, hell, didn't Daniel and even Manhattan's gaze tell her so? She was a sensual creature. Why then was she so afraid?

Carefully, she ran her fingertips down her skin, feeling the familiar pleasure/fear as her nipples peaked and her thighs quivered. Was this wrong? She had never fucked, never. She had never met any man she wanted enough, or cared for as more than a friend. So why now? An image came unbidden to her mind, of strong arms around her, rough hands exploring this same flesh she now pursued. A constantly shifting mask, pushed up just enough for warm breath to fall on the skin of her neck, the touch of teeth on her throat as his hand…Rorschach. No.

She stopped, flushing. She was supposed to meet him in half an hour. There was no reason to stand here, imagining his hands on her. Why was she anyway? She didn't even like him, right? Right. Shrugging angrily at her reflection, she turned away from the mirror to begin dressing.

Rorschach waited in the alley where he would meet the Chameleon tonight. He was more agitated than usual; he hoped she would hurry, he needed to break a few heads in. Rorschach was unsure if asking her help in this situation was wise; but then, it wasn't he that had asked, was it? No, Walter Kovacs had surfaced in his awkward fashion and asked her, as blithe as you might like, like a nervous teenager asking for a date. And she had agreed. He had gone to see Manhattan, but she had been there as well, dressed warmly in a green sweater precisely the shade of her eyes. She had said she would be glad to help, her eyes flat and questioning, but beneath that…what? Nothing, of course. He had not seen any flicker, or if he had it was of curiosity, not pleasure.

She was late. That was unlike her. Every night they had patrolled together, she had always been a few minutes early. Ten minutes later, Rorschach found himself moving through the night, quickly, to her apartment. There were no lights on.

Her door was easy enough to force. There was no movement. It was too silent. Rorschach knew she had a cat, there should at least be some sign of life. Something was not right. When he felt the presence in the room, he spun, catching the man in the jaw with his booted foot, dropping him. Instantly, he was surrounded. Too many. He fought hard, kicking and punching, wounding several. But they were too many, even for a superhero. He was finally wrestled to the ground, looked up to see a foot swinging towards his head, and then the world went black.

When he awoke, the first thing he became aware of was the harsh brightness of the room. Opening his eyes fully, he could see that he was chained to a large steel pipe. He was in a warehouse; his head and body aching. There were men milling about, a good dozen of them. Another small group of four were in one corner, facing something he could not see.

"Ah, here's our little superhero. Awake now, eh?" One man laughed, seeing him move. "I wanted to take off your mask, but the boss, he says not yet, eh? I think you are in some deep shit, my friend."

Rorschach said nothing. One of the men in the corner had moved, revealing what they had been blocking before. The Chameleon was handcuffed, her hands suspended high above her head so that she had to stand on her toes to touch the ground. Dressed only in black panties, she was already heavily bruised, her ribs and breasts baring many darkening spots from fists and feet. One eye was almost completely swollen shut, the other looked out but appeared not to see.

The door to the warehouse opened and a large black man stepped through. His head was waxed bald, his build tremendously powerful. He looked over at Rorschach, uttered a barking laugh before turning to Sayre. Her eye opened wide when she saw him, attempting to move back away.

"Two superheroes in one night, not bad, eh boys?" the boss asked, laughing. He reached out and pinched Sayre's nipple, making her wince. Rorschach felt his breath catch. "Two little heroes to play with tonight, and this one so pretty. What you think, boys? Should I give her a taste of a real man?"

The men jeered and shouted, laughing and pushing at each other. It made Rorschach's blood boil to watch as the leader of the gang begun undoing his belt. "Hold her legs," he said. "Little bitch killed Ricardo with a kick, so you make sure you hold her legs, damn it." Rorschach saw him pull his cock out of his pants, stroking it to bring it to full erection. Then he stepped forward, blocking Rorschach's view of Sayre. He heard her cry out when he penetrated her, saw the blood dripping down onto the floor. _Her virgin blood, spilled upon this filthy floor. Virgin blood that should be spilled only in a marriage bed, staining the white sheets as ecstasy becomes real. Blood that should have been spilt a thousand miles from this dirty warehouse, spilled by a man who loved her, valued her and respected her, not by this lust driven dog._ Rorschach felt Kovac's thoughts come through strongly and pushed them down. He would kill them, all of them, if he could.

Sayre stopped crying out, her breath coming harsh and painful below the grunts of the gang leader. He was commenting on her virgin state, the tightness of her. It sickened Rorschach. It angered Kovacs.

"What you think, baby? Best fuck you will ever have, eh?" the leader asked as he stepped back, tucking himself back into his pants. "Best fuck I ever had, I'll admit. Never put much store on the virgin thing, but boy, baby, you sure changed my mind."

Sayre was trembling, but she raised her head and stared at the man. As if deciding something, she spit on him, a great glob of her spittle hitting his face. "You bitch!" the man cried, backhanding her across the face, rocking her head backwards. "Let's see if you are that brave later. Joaquin, bring the other superhero. Let's see how she likes his meat, if she doesn't like mine."

No! Rorschach found against his bonds, slamming his shoulder into the man who would have grabbed him. He would not, could not do that. Not to her, no, but not to himself either. He would die before he shamed himself that way. Suddenly, the men seemed to be backing off. There were cars pulling up, their tired rumbling over the loose gravel outside.

The men were in a panic, grabbing weapons they had discarded on the ground. All but four left the warehouse, guns and knives drawn. It seemed that a rival gang had shown up. If they were to escape, it had to be now. Rorschach looked over at Sayre. She was making small hops, attempting to get enough height to move her chains over the hook that suspended her, but without leverage to push against, she could not get high enough.

Rorschach turned his attention back to himself. The chains were too strong to break, but perhaps he could work them off the pipe? He would try anyway. Keeping a close eye on the four men standing by the door, who seemed more preoccupied with the yells and shots being fired outside, Rorschach began working the chain against the pipe.

"Ssh," a voice whispered in his ear. Rorschach froze. Sayre was gone from her place on the hook, the hook bent down. She must have used her force to bend the hook down enough to slide off the end. Her invisible hands began working at his locks, until finally, he was free. "Ready?" He nodded. Not five seconds later, one of the guards at the door was lifted off the ground, seemingly by nothing, his neck twisted until it snapped.

Rorschach exploded into action, taking out one man with a strategic boot to the back of the head. The man dropped without a sound. The other two dogs noticed him now, coming for him, low and fast, knives out. The first, too easy, snapping his wrist and plunging his own knife into his throat, a low gurgle as he fell to the floor. The second never reached him. He tripped and fell, a large board coming down to smash in his head as he lay on the floor.

The Chameleon reappeared, naked now, her body caked in blood and grime. With a despairing sound, Rorschach removed his coat and handed it to her. She stared at his hand for a moment before taking the garment, draping it over her form.

"Can you run?" he asked.

"I think so. How far?"

"Not far. Safe place, half mile maybe."

"What of…them?"

Rorschach pointed to two semi automatic guns laying on the floor. "Can you shoot?"

"Yes."

He bent, picking up the guns and handing them to her. For himself he grabbed a large lighter from a shelf against the wall and a bottle of weed killer. It would work. "Go."

They burst from the warehouse, Chameleon going invisible again. There was full scale gang warfare going on, less than a dozen men left standing, fighting at close range with knives and brass knuckles, bullets exhausted. Sayre gunned down those closest to the door; they were dead before they registered the escape.

The leader turned his attention to Rorschach, rushing him, knife in each hand. Rorschach waited until he was close, spraying the weed killer and igniting the mixture, creating a massive fireball. The man screamed, but kept coming, his knife scoring a long shallow cut down Rorschach's stomach. An elbow to the head and he went down, hair crisping as he fell.

"Roschach!" Sayre's voice, high and frightened. He spun, searching for where the sound had come from when he felt her take his arm. "There are too many. We need to go. Now." She pulsed visible for a moment and pointed down the alley. There were more men, fresh men coming in. From what gang, he did not know, but it did not matter. They would wish to kill the masked heroes if they could.

"Rorschach, I can…I think, anyway. I can make you invisible too." The image of her pulsed slightly, going from invisible to visible and back again like a crazed light bulb. "May I?"

Rorschach looked at the oncoming men. Ten. Unwounded, he may be able to do it. But the long cut on his side was beginning to bleed freely, the myriad bruises and abrasions on his body beginning to demand a respite. He looked at Sayre, her face was apprehensive. He wasn't going to like this. "Do it."

She nodded, reaching to take his hand in hers. He felt a moment of discomfort, icy cold, but then it passed. Looking down, he could see nothing of himself. "We have to stay in touch," she told him. "Don't break hold. Now, go."

Fleeing, holding tightly to her hand through his glove, unnerved him. He could not get a free stride going; she was weakening, her steps becoming slightly faltering. Going over fences was extremely difficult, having to climb as she climbed instead of hopping up on top of them as was his wont. Rorschach was too aware of her labored breathing, the small cries of pain as she almost slipped going around corners.

He led her back to his house. No one but she knew where it was. He waited until they had gotten inside, securing the multiple locks on the door before he released her hand, his body once more becoming visible. She stepped back from him, also becoming visible. He looked at her curiously. Always before, no matter how bad she felt, she always had a bright spirit, an incorruptible goodness to her that shone like a beacon. It was gone now. She looked used, dejected. Her eyes were dead as she looked at him.

"This is your house. You took me here before." Her voice was flat.

"Yes." He was not sure what to say. "We will spend the night here. Tomorrow you may go home."

She nodded, her legs collapsing her onto the couch. It was an old piece, and he did not care if she bled on it.

"Sleep now," he told her, turning away and going into the bedroom. As tired as he was, he knew he needed to get this wound cleaned up. If it needed to be stitched, Daniel could do it tomorrow. He would not die from it. He shed his clothes in the bedroom, setting his face on the small oak dresser near the bathroom.

Standing in the shower, he allowed the water to pour over him, enjoying the heat on his tired and painful muscles. He began thinking about what had happened tonight. How had those men found Sayre? How had they known she was a superhero? She must have tried to escape them using her powers. And he, like a fool, had run into a trap that had gotten him caught as well. They had gotten out. He was essentially unhurt, other than these bruises and this one nasty cut. But would she ever be alright? He did not want to picture what had happened to her, what that despicable dog had done to her, but he could not stop his mind from recalling the high pitched cry she had tried to stifle when he had forced himself into her. Manhattan had been right; she was a virgin, not a whore. And now, that had been taken away from her.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he did not register the new sound intruding for almost a full minute. Finally, he came back to himself enough to understand that the other shower head had been turned on. His shower was large, with two large shower heads, designed to look more like a locker room shower than a customary house one. His hands clenched. How dared she? He did not even have his face on…no one saw him without his face. But Walter surfaced at that point, taking back the body that had been his for thirty-two years. Even quiet, shy, socially awkward Walter knew what to do. He turned slowly, his eyes wide as he stared at the woman in his shower.

She had her back to him, her long hair thoroughly wetted and hanging over one shoulder so that he could see her entire, from the delicate knobs at the top of her spine, down her strong back, the tiny tapered waist and the flare of the full hips, small dimples at the top of her shapely buttocks. Her legs, long, shapely, stretching down to the floor. She was covered with bruises still, the colors starkly purple against the paleness of her skin. As if she sensed his eyes on her, she looked over her shoulder, and seeing him, turned to face him fully.

He tried to keep his eyes locked onto hers, as her eyes curiously explored his face, seen for the first time. But there were distractions; her breasts, inhumanly perfect rose and fell with each of her breaths, a drop of water dancing on the tip of her left nipple; her ribs and stomach covered in scratches, bruises, and what looked suspiciously like a burn mark over her left hip. She was hairless below her eyes, all her skin smooth and pale without a hair to ruin its perfectness.

"Rorschach?" her voice sounded small, almost childish.

"Yes."

"What's your name? Your real name?"

He would have answered her, but Kovacs surfaced again. "Walter."

She smiled a bit, a sad look that did not touch her eyes, but it was the most expression she had exhibited since her rape. "Walter. Thank you."

"For what?" he nearly stammered as she stepped towards him, her arms reaching up to twine about his neck. He wanted to shove her away, to hit her, hurt her, to teach her that she must never, ever do as she was doing. It wasn't safe. It wasn't right.

"For being there," she said softly, cocking her head to the left, her eyes fixed on his. "I fully expected to die tonight; would have died, at my own hand if not by theirs. But you saved me."

"You released yourself. Released me." His voice had regained its harsh emotionless quality, and that was good.

"I had to. I am not sure I would have tried, if you had not been there. I didn't think I could, but I could not let you die and have it be my fault. I couldn't."

"All die."

"Yes. But not you, not yet. Not before…"

"Before?" He was perplexed. Her eyes were very large, their pupils retracted to almost catlike slits.

"Before I could do this," she said simply, standing up on her toes to press her lips to his.

Walter Kovacs, who had only been kissed once in his adult life, and that by a drunken friend over a decade ago, felt himself freeze in panic. Rorschach, who had never been kissed, nor ever had any desire to be kissed, was positively apoplectic with rage, and incapacitated with it. He wanted to tell her to step back; he really did not want to have to hurt her.

But for the first time since Rorschach came into existence and commanded this body, he was pushed aside. Walter Kovacs, his heart pounding, allowed his arms to wrap around the naked woman, allowed his lips to soften against hers. Had she shown an ounce of whorish tendency, no doubt Rorschach would have taken control again and knocked her into the wall. As it was, she kissed him softly, her body pressed the full length of his, the first touch of her tongue against his tentative and unsure, almost afraid. She gasped softly when one of his hands accidently grazed her naked breast, but instead of pulling away like he was sure she would (of course she will), she moved closer to him.

"Sayre," he murmured against her skin as he lowered his head to kiss the soft skin at her neck, his tongue finding a small bleeding cut on her neck. He could feel her heart beating, too fast, against his chest. She was afraid. He straightened then, taking a step back from her, letting the hot water spill over his body. "No."

She opened her eyes and looked at him, taking in his well muscled body. Although not tall or particularly imposing, he was well built, his chest , arms and back a bodybuilder in miniature. His legs were strong, his hips sharp. He was visibly excited, his penis rising to a salute past the light down of red hair there.

"Why?" she asked.

"Would not debase you, not for anything." He tried to make her understand, knowing that she never would. "First woman who is not a whore, first woman to see me. I would not ruin you."

"Walter. Rorschach. We've known each other for what…a half year? You did not like me; I didn't really like you either. But over the past few months, I've grown to…care…for you. You make a good partner, you are very real, unlike the others. There is something about you that interests me. The others, for all their openness would not have reacted like you did tonight. I would not have been able to get out of my bonds for them. Even if I had, they would all have been so damn sorry after, they would not know what to say, what to do. But you, you are still near me, and you don't look at me with revulsion. Even though, now, by your own definition, I am no longer pure."

"No," he growled. "You did not choose that. Your innocence was taken, not thrown away. Your soul is still pure."

"But my body is not."

"No."

"Walter, please. I do not want to be haunted by tonight for the rest of my life. Please, make my memory better."

"What would you have me do?" He thought he knew, but he was unsure. He had never been intimate with a woman, and while he knew the practice in theory, he had never engaged in it.

"Make love to me." She said it almost defiantly, her chin raised as if she expected him to refuse her. He was. He had to.

"Sayre…"

She raised her hands then, to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. "I've seen you in your mask a thousand times. But I've seen you without it too, you know. Several times, usually around my apartment. You followed me."

"Yes." His voice was hoarser than usual at her proximity.

"Please, Walter. Let me forget the stench of him, the pain of him. Let me remember, forever, only you, your blue eyes above me, your arms around me. Please." She drew his head down, searching his eyes for an answer that his lips would not give, and kissed him again, her hands resting against the hard, unmoving planes of his chest.

Then something in him gave, and he picked her up. For a moment he was unsure of what he meant to do with her, hold her or throw her, but she never panicked, wrapping her arms about him. His decision seemingly made for him, he kicked open the door to the bedroom and carried her to the bed, setting her down, dripping wet, in the center.

She leaned on her elbows, her upper body raised, staring up at him as he stood at the foot of the bed in silent wonder. She was so beautiful, even covered in bruises, with one eye swollen almost shut. Far too beautiful for him. And yet she stared at him as if she wanted him, her eyes devoid of any disgust or distaste. Her knees were just parted, an open invitation. Gently, he put one knee on the foot of the bed, and she sat straight up, thighs opening as she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up to her.

He kissed her then, for the first time. Her lips were so soft, her tongue tentative but eager against his. Surely this was not whorish, was it? His hand came up, gently stroking her neck as he kissed her. As he slowly moved lower, finding a nipple already taut and hard against his palm, he was shocked deeply. Her one good eye opened to stare at him then, and she whispered his name, hand entangling itself in his damp hair.

He was afraid. He did not want to hurt her, and yet, his desire, tamed for so many years, came roaring to life. He wanted to let his body knew what it knew how to do. With an iron will that had as many years of practice as his body, he kept himself in check, gently caressing her skin with his fingertips. The bruises livid against her skin reminded him of his real face, discarded for the first time since he had taken it up years ago. As his hand moved between her legs, she whimpered, raising her knees to give him better access.

"Please, Walter," she kissed him, lifting her hips up so that it met his hand. She was damp there too, like the rest of her body, but it was a completely different sort of dampness. He felt the spot she would have him touch and watched, breathless, as her back arched into his. Her free hand snaked down to circle his engorged cock, clumsily and endearingly touching it. No one had ever touched him with such awe and curiosity before. It was a heady feeling.

She was strong. She grasped his shoulders and moved him between her legs. Suddenly he was on top of her, his hands coming to rest on either side of her head as if in a pushup, staring down at her face. His knees and lower legs rested on the bed, his body held between his hands and his knees, raised. She raised her knees, the skin unbearably soft against his own skin, sliding her legs around him, ankles locking at the base of his spine.

"Don't want to hurt you."

"I don't care, I don't care," she begged. "Rorschach, Walter, please!" She reached down to encircle him again and led him to her entrance. As he entered her, he was struck by the heat she produced, and the tightness of her opening. He wasn't sure he could fit himself into this small of a hole. It took over a minute of slow adjusting, both of them breathing heavily before he was sheathed in her flesh. Unsure of exactly what to do, he tried a small thrust, deeply shocked at the sensations that even that small motion produced.

She began rolling her hips in time with his thrusts, her arms alternating between around his neck and clutching at his back. Finally, he found the right rhythm, his body fitting perfectly to hers. She began making small cries, deep in her throat, both eyes closed. Sayre pulled him down to her, kissing him hard before burying her face in his shoulder as he overpowered her, years of pent up lust and hatred of his act spilling over into the finding of pleasure. She felt his muscles begin to bunch under her hands, feeling her own body meet its climax. Like running off a cliff, it was frightening; exhilarating too, the pleasure hitting her in long waves as he spent himself deep inside of her.

Carefully, he rolled off her, laying on his back. She curled up into his side, one hand finding his hand and gently twining her fingers with his calloused ones, smiled at him.

_Rorschach's Journal._

_5 October,1982. 4:37am._

_She's sleeping._

_Sleeping, her face buried into my pillow. She's smiling._

_Why?_

_Walter feels for her. I understand why. She's the best thing he'll ever have._

_But why does she want him? Why does she want me?_

_Don't understand. This bothers me. She bothers me._

_Couldn't let her die, but now, can't let her go._

_Should leave. It's almost dawn. Leave and what?_

_Pretend it never happened? No good at pretending._

_Walter wants her. She intrigues me. She's strong, but weak too._

_Woman weak, woman strong._

_She murmurs my name. Smiles. Murmurs Walter's name._

_She knows we are separate. She calls for both of us._

_Walter wants to go to her; I will not._

_Must leave her._

When Sayre woke in the morning, she first registered the dull ache in her body. When she was in high school, she had been an accomplished dancer. Often, she would wake with these sorts of aches, although less. Now, however, it was a novel thing, to wake feeling as if every muscle was screaming.

As she struggled to sit up, she realized that this was a lot more than simple overexertion that was causing her muscles to ache. She opened her eyes, shocked that she could not open one eye past half mast. The memory of the previous night flooded her mind. It had been so terrible…and then, it had been so perfect. Now she knew where she was. She was in Rorschach's home, in Rorschach's bed. Gingerly, she stood.

The door opened and Rorschach entered, checking at the sight of her standing naked in his room. The two heroes stared at each other for a moment before Rorschach proffered what he had been carrying. He had slipped off to her apartment and gathered some clothes for her. Murmuring her thanks, Sayre took the bundle, seeing her favorite sweater, a bright magenta garment, long sleeved and long waisted. He had also brought her black tights that she usually wore with this sweater, a matching black bra and panties, and a pair of low heels.

After staring at each other for a few more seconds, Sayre looked down. He turned to go. "Rorschach?"

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder. She turned red, the blush suffusing her cheeks. "Thanks."

"Welcome."

After she dressed and ran her fingers through her hair, Sayre ventured out into the living room. Rorschach was waiting for her, lounging on the couch, perusing a book. When he saw her, he stood. "Need to go see Daniel. You too; he might be able to do something about the swelling on your eye."

"Alright."

"Is something going on between Rorschach and the Chameleon?" Silk Spectre asked Dr. Manhattan. They were standing in the hallway outside Ozymandius' meeting room. The law had just been passed, outlawing "masked vigilantes." The age of the superhero was over, but they would meet one last time in costume before trying to work their way into normal society.

"I do not know. Why do you ask?" the large blue man asked.

"I don't know. I know she's always had a fascination with them, and all of a sudden they are acting….weird."

"How so?"

"Like they have some inside joke," Laurie shook her head. "I don't know, its just strange. But they never really seemed like they had any sort of relationship before, and now…its like they do but are pretending that they don't. They stand too close, or too far. They always seem to not be looking at each other, like it's intentional."

"Perhaps they are together." Manhattan mused. "He did seem to be fixated on her, not in a positive way though. But maybe it has changed."

"I don't know what she could see in him, though. He's so…creepy."

Just then, the elevator dinged and Rorschach stepped out. He nodded to Manhattan and Silk Spectre, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets.

"You came up in the elevator this time," Manhattan said, his voice almost amused.

Rorschach made his familiar acknowledgment sound deep in his throat, before saying. "Ozymandius requested I not terrify his guards by climbing the building this time."

Laurie had to stifle a giggle. The last time they had all gathered here, Rorschach had caused quite a stir with Ozymandius' people by climbing straight up the building. Rorschach had seemed quite unapologetic, but obviously he had heeded Ozymandius and not done it again.

"No one else here yet?"

"Not yet. Ozymandius is upstairs still in a meeting. The Comedian isn't here yet, nor is the Chameleon." Laurie watched Rorschach when she said this last, but he did not seem to respond. After a few more moments of quiet, the elevator dinged again.

Rorschach, who had been wandering the waiting room, being amused by Adrian's antiques, looked up. The Comedian stepped out, and behind him, Sayre. She looked smug about something, and there was a palm shaped red mark on the Comedian's face. Rorschach smiled to himself.

Laurie watched the Rorschach and the Chameleon, hoping their reactions would give the status of their relationship away. Unfortunately, they were the two with the hardest expressions to read, Rorschach's mask making it completely impossible, and the Chameleon with only her mouth showing. Did her mouth turn up in the corners in a smile? Laurie wasn't sure.

When Adrian finally came downstairs to welcome them into the parlor, Rorschach chose to stand near where Sayre had taken a seat. She kept her gaze studiously averted, instead choosing to smile at Adrian himself. What was going on?

"As you know, from today on, anything we do in public is illegal. This is the last time we can wear our costumes. No more hunting down scum," Adrian said.

"The gutters will be overrun," Rorschach growled.

Adrian held up his hand. "Be that as it may, it is no longer our duty. Now, I can not stop any of you from doing as you will, but if you are caught, you will be arrested. I highly suggest you use your abilities to create normal lives for yourselves. Of course, any of you are welcome to apply at Veigt Enterprises, I am more than confident that I could use any of you, and provide for you very well indeed."

"Thanks for the offer, Adrian," Daniel said, lifting his goggles so that the others could see his eyes. "But I, for one, am going to try and live normally. Beer with the guys on Friday, catch up on my reading, maybe go back to school. Who knows."

"I think we should try and keep in touch, though," Laurie mused. "I mean, we've all been together so long, except for the Chameleon. It would be a shame to lose touch."

"Of course. It'll be like a superhero phone tree," the Comedian laughed.

"No, it is a good idea," Manhattan said. He leaned up against a set of marble bookshelves. "We have been, if not friends, colleagues for years. It is imperative that we keep the communication open."

"That's easy," Adrian shrugged. "You all know where I live. I am not afraid for my identity to be public, but I know some of you will wish to keep yours private. Manhattan, you have already been offered a position with the government; you and our dear Silk Spectre will be housed accordingly, and easy to find. Daniel has lived in the same place for years. That leaves Blake, Rorschach and Sayre."

"I wander," the Comedian shrugged. "I have my home; I'll give you the address, Adrian, but if any of you show up uninvited, be prepared to explain yourselves, and it had better be important."

"I'm going back to college. You can always find me there. My housing situation is a bit unsettled at the moment, but I'll let you know when I know." Sayre rested her head on the back of her chair. Rorschach's gloved hand was less than two inches from her head, curled around the back of the chair.

"Rorschach?"

"Find me if you need me. Don't have a concrete home."

Within six months, they have developed a rather comfortable routine for the both of them. She has learned to tell exactly when he is Rorschach and when he is Walter. He allows himself to be Walter more often than he ever could before in the past. His time is almost split between the man he was born, and the man he has created himself. They never get up before noon. Day is spent however seems best. Sayre goes to college, where she majors in psychology, much to Rorschach's irritated amusement. She has an easy time with her classes, almost effortlessly memorizing what takes other student's hours of repetition. Walter has a job working in a tailors; he is skilled at his work, although quiet enough that he makes the owner nervous.

Both are home by seven, every night. They have a quick dinner together in the small one bedroom home Sayre has purchased with her inheritance. They don't talk much; they don't need to. When he is Walter, Sayre will often sit in his lap in a thin silk nightgown as they talk, or watch old movies. When he is Rorschach, she sits at his side, her hands often busy with a crossword puzzle or other trivial game.

At ten, they head out. He wears his customary outfit, a costume for all its casualness. She wears different clothes, always with her hair plaited down her back to prevent it getting in the way. Most nights she wears black head to toe, tight fitting clothes so that she has freedom of movement. Other nights, so reminiscent it can make him laugh as Walter, she dresses like a prostitute and wanders, seemingly aimlessly, in truth, never far from him.

Tonight she is dressed in black tights and a form fitting black turtleneck, black boots. She manages to look chic, and she knows it. Just before they step out the door, she slams him against the wall. This has become something of a game for them both, a game Rorschach understands, but Kovacs still fears. They have not played it through to its fruition, but it is getting there. It began one night, three and more months ago, when he had made a deprecating comment about himself. She was currently being pursued by two men at her school that could not believe a woman like she was unattached. Since he refused to show his presence publicly in that manner, she had nothing other than her word to tell them that she was seeing someone. One of the men in particular was known for being good looking, and wealthy besides, a man any woman would favor.

She had asked him to go to the opera with her. They were doing Fauste, and she wanted to see it. He had refused, pulling on his face, turning back to say: "Ask Anthony Dillinger. He'll go with you." Anthony Dillinger was the more persistent of the two men at her school. With a hiss, she had moved in front of him and swung. He had put his arm up to shield himself from the blow even as he bent back to avoid it, causing only her long nails to leave deep scoring marks across his forearm. He had looked at them for a moment, the blood welling up, a low growl in his throat. He had grabbed her hands, holding them in his until he could feel the bones crack. An ounce more pressure and they would shatter. Her eyes had been blazing, as if daring him to do it. He could not. He had released her and stormed out, not returning for three days.

After this incident, there have been almost regular displays of dominance and aggressiveness on both their parts. Both seeking to wound, to anger the other, almost daring each other to see who is stronger. They both know he is. But they know she is faster, and they wonder who would win. Tonight, when she slams him into the wall, he is ready for her. He grabs her arms, hard, leaving bruises on the tender flesh there. She laughs. She tried to claw at his hands; this is expected. What is not expected is the sharp knee to the sternum that seems to come out of nowhere. He releases her as he grunts with pain, and she is out the door, moving fast.

They have never taken their game out of doors before. She has the advantage, with her powers. He steps out, cautiously, making sure the door closes behind him. She has learned to move quietly. She is dangerous. Rorschach is excited; Kovacs is confused. This deadly game is just the sort that Rorschach desires. He makes his way out into the street, his jacket turned up, hat pulled down. If she wants to play in this fashion, let her. But it will be on his terms.

He makes it to a small alley. He can occasionally hear her footsteps following him, but never very close. One of the whores on the corner calls out to him, clutching at her silicon breasts in offering. Less than ten seconds later, she is face down in the gutter, the victim of an invisible foot, making her sprawl into the filthy gutter. Rorschach laughs to himself, before carefully tucking himself into a small space between the edge of one building and another. The way the shadows lie, he is almost impossible to see from the angle she will be coming.

And come she does. He hears her breath, soft, but just audible with frustration as she steps in front of him. He can see from the imprint she leaves in the dirt that she is facing away, probably looking at the dumpster on the opposite wall. As fast as he can, he grabs hold of her about the waist. Immediately she becomes visible, attempting to slap him off. He picks her off the ground, tossing her into the corner where she lands in a heap, rolling away. She is dazed, it makes her slow.

He grabs her again, pressing her against the brick wall. Sayre attempts to bring her knee up again, but he wrenches her head back, his hand in her hair at the base, almost at her scalp. She bends back, dropping to her knees in front of him.

"Well," she laughs, her back bent, immobilized. "Somehow it seems we've been like this before. The first day we met."

"Hmm." He remembers that day well. He had been disgusted with her position, being so close, and she had grown embarrassed. That was a year ago. Now, though, it excited Rorschach in a very primal way to have her on her knees before him. Kovacs never lets her; he is too shy, too gentle. He would consider that degradation, and he wants no part in degrading the woman he has come to care for. But Rorschach…he would like to see her degraded, and he thinks that perhaps even she would like to be degraded in this way.

Rorschach himself has never had any sexual contact with Sayre. That is a realm he leaves entirely up to Kovacs. The most he has had from her have been a few embraces when she desires him to hold her, even when he is not Walter. He has a revelation, with her on her knees before him. She loves Walter; she has confessed this last week, and Walter feels the same. But inside Walter is also Rorschach, and she also cares for him. To her, even though separate personalities, they both make up the man she loves. She will fulfill all of Walter's desires; should she not also fulfill Rorschach's?

One hand still in her hair, he begins fumbling with his belt. She sees what he means to do, and her eyes grow wide in questioning. But she strains forward, her fingers far more deft than his gloved ones to unclasp his belt and work his zipper. With a few flicks, he springs free, fully erect and pulsing in the cool night air.

On her knees, on the dirt of an alley, she does not care. She reverently laps at his cock, her eyes staring up at him as he gazes down at her from behind his face. Her face burns with embarrassment, but she follows his guiding hand in her hair with only a small whimper before taking him into her mouth. He is too big for her to take him completely, but she tries anyway, until she can go no further and gags. He holds her like this for a moment, watching the tears appear in her eyes. Then he releases the pressure on her head, allowing her to back off. She does, setting to work in long, slow strokes, her mouth warm and wet around him. She is inexperienced, and this excites him.

Soon, he is holding her head in his hands, unable to keep his hips from making small thrusts as she brings him closer to the edge. With a cry, he goes to push her back before he spills, but she does not let him, allowing him to shoot into her mouth, which she swallows. He can feel her swallowing against the head of his cock.

He tucks himself back in, redoes his belt, and pulls her to her feet. Daintily, she wipes her mouth with her fingers, but he pushes her against the wall again, lifting his face just enough so that he can kiss her. Her mouth tastes like her, but it tastes like him too. He continues to kiss her as he snakes one hand down her tights, under the lace underwear she insists on wearing, to cup her heated flesh. Kovacs is improving his skills as a lover; almost every night Sayre and Walter have sex, their curiosity still not sated. He is no longer shy to touch her, indeed, he has begun to enjoy pressing his mouth to her pussy, tasting the juices there, bringing her to almost crying pleasure. Rorschach needs no such niceties. In his brain are all the skills that Kovacs has learned, plus all the coarse talk he has heard, and a will to put it into action. His fingers are not gentle as he presses two of them up inside her. She cries out at first, but her body quickly accepts his invasion. He uses his thumb to stimulate her as he thrusts up inside of her, the greater weight of his body holding her unmoving against the wall.

When she begins to move in time with his fingers, her gasps becoming louder, her climax imminent, he kisses her again, biting her lip. "No." He tells her, gruffly. "Not yet." She swallows, her body shaking in an effort to obey him. Twice more he has to tell her no, and twice more she must struggle to maintain control of her body, her eyes wide and pleading although she does not utter a word.

Finally he leans in and whispers: "Now." Her head lulls forward to rest on his shoulder as her body clenches around his fingers. Her entire frame goes weak; if he were not holding her up he is sure she would collapse. She shudders against him, the muscles surrounding his fingers quivering like mad. When it is over, he removes his fingers, guiding them to her mouth. She licks them clean. He kisses her once more, enjoying the taste of she and he together in her mouth before pulling his mask back down all the way.

"Can you stand?" he asks.

"I…yes." She says. She is trembling, but smiling too.

"Good. Want to go down to 42nd? Papers say drug problems are worst there."

She almost looks puzzled, as if she can not comprehend him. But then she nods. "Sure, why not?"


End file.
